Hereditary
by Daydream Believing
Summary: Nerine Leith knows that the Hunger Games is hereditary, so she's been expecting to hear her name at the Reaping all her life. But she didn't expect that the Hunger Games could lead her to find her salvation...
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

**_Six years ago._**

I awake with a start; the memory of my nightmare still flashing before my eyes. I can still picture blood and knives before my eyes, but I don't remember why.

I sit up, pushing my damp hair off from my forehead. Something feels wrong; as if some unwanted presence is near me. I glance anxiously around my bedroom; my eyes flickering over the flowery wallpaper and the whitewashed furniture that line my room.

There is nothing there that I can see. I feel under my pillow and my hands grasp the cool metal handle of the knife that my mother insists that I sleep with.

My fist clenches clumsily around the hilt and I look down at it with uncertain eyes. It has always been an unspoken rule in our house that you sleep with some kind of weapon. The fear in my mother's eyes had drilled that into me and so every night before I let myself drift into sleep I check that the knife is safely underneath my pillow. Just in case.

I force my trembling legs to stand up, feeling stupid brandishing the knife in front of me. An intruder would hardly be intimidated by the sight of a skinny eleven year old in a nightdress decorated with printed pink butterflies.

The floorboards in the hallway creak as they always do, and I wince as the silence of the house amplifies the sound. But I shake my head impatiently, feeling frustrated by my own cowardice.

If my mother is downstairs and someone is inside the house, then she will stand no chance. Not the day before the Reapings.

But I know her; she'll most likely be passed out in her bed, morphling racing through her veins and burning in her blood, keeping her distracted from the thoughts that turn her into a stranger.

That was how I liked my mother best. She was less of a liability when she was unconscious.

I take a hesitant step onto the stairs and listen cautiously for the sounds of someone moving around downstairs. I'm slightly surprised that something like this hasn't happened before; we live in one of the most prestigious houses in District 4, and the Capitol ensure that it is always well stocked. This was the privilege of my mother's position – one that I know she doesn't enjoy.

My fingers brush along the wallpaper, tracing the shapes of waves and mermaids. Sometimes I think that this decor is something of a cliché, but it's still pretty.

I focus on the thought of the intruder, and my feet continue to take gentle steps down the stairs. I remember which ones are the squeakiest, and these are the ones which I avoid.

My heart thuds wildly in my chest as my ear identifies faint sounds coming from the direction of the living room, and my palm becomes so sweaty that I almost dropped the knife. I lurch and hang onto it tightly, not wanting to give myself away. But my feet seem to have become glued to the floor, and nothing I can do will free them.

The darkness of my house seems oppressive and the shapes of pictures and ornaments that are so familiar to me have suddenly morphed into unfamiliar shapes. My eyes pick out the silhouette of a wolf's head on the wall, and a tiger crouched behind the door.

My heart rate accelerates in panic, and I make myself recognise the shapes for what they really are. Not a wolf and a tiger; just a couple of photo frames and a vase.

_Don't be stupid, Nerine, _I tell myself determinedly, and manage to take a step towards the living room.

My eyes spot a flickering light through the crack of the door illuminated on the walls of the living room, casting an eerie glow over the hallway. I jump violently as everything goes suddenly dark and then the light flashes back, brighter than before.

That's when the scream starts up. _Mum! _I thought that she would have been safe in her room. I know that I should've checked, but something that basic hadn't even crossed my mind.

The scream sounds again, and an identical one tears from my own throat, "Mum!" I immediately clap a hand against my lips, and curse myself for being so stupid.

I burst into the room; my eyes wheeling around wildly and a sudden breath of relief escapes from my mouth; the world spinning in a sudden wave of nausea. The screaming is coming from the television, and it takes me several moments to work out what I'm seeing on the screen.

The blood and the weapons could mean only one thing. The Hunger Games. And then I notice a familiar looking girl standing in the midst of the bodies, wiping a blood drenched sword on her orange shirt.

This is mum's games. But why would she have been watching it?

A gong sounds suddenly from the television and the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith is broadcast from the speakers, "Congratulations to Marina Leith. The winner of the 53rd Hunger Games."

I have seen this footage many times before, because everyone delights in telling me how proud I should be of my mum, and so I force myself to watch this footage over and over, to see if I might actually grow to be proud of her.

But as I watch the expression on my younger mother's face, I can't evoke pride because her eyes seem so distant, and empty. In fact, it's the expression that is often on my mother's face even now. I know that the ghosts of her Hunger Games still haunt her.

"Mum?" I find myself whispering, because I still can't quite shake the feeling that something is wrong with this scenario. Why is my mother's Hunger Games playing away to itself at 2.00 in the morning?

"Mum?" I raise my voice this time, but there's still no answer. I glance around the room; my eyes searching yet not finding anything.

Then, suddenly, they alight on something in the corner of the room. Just slightly out of sight behind the sofa.

A hand.

I dart over, my legs trembling so violently that I almost trip myself up.

I shut my eyes. I don't want to look. I can't look. What if she's done something stupid?

_Now, _I instruct myself firmly, _you have to look now. She's probably just passed out like normal._

I blink my eyes back open and my knees buckle as I see my mother. She's lying sprawled across the floor; her legs stick out at a strange angle and her skin is pale and waxy. My knees give way and I thud to the floor beside her, my fingers searching hungrily at her neck for a pulse.

There's nothing there.

How can there be nothing there? I see her hand curled loosely around the syringe, but she always takes too much and it never does her any harm.

My hand returns to her neck. There must be a pulse there somewhere. It's just hard to find because I'm not a doctor.

"Mum?" I find myself whispering desperately, "Mum, please wake up. You're scaring me." I tuck a strand of her dark hair behind her ear and stroke her cheek softly. She looks so much more peaceful like this; I've never known my mum without the pain that always lingers in her eyes. The lines of her face, which are usually so harsh and worn, seem to have softened and disappeared, making her look younger than I ever remember seeing her.

I glance again at the syringe in her fingers. I've always resented morphling; it can take away her pain while I am left feeling helpless. Only able to observe as my mother loses her grip on reality, and I can do nothing when I see the madness takes over except get myself out of her sight, before she starts seeing me as an enemy.

A sigh escapes from my lips, and I touch my fingertips to her eyelids, closing her eyes softly.

But instead of sadness, it's only anger that surges within my limbs. It's anger that tightens my jaw and clenches my fists. Because in that moment I hate her for taking the easy way out. She's given up on life, but more than that, she's given up on me.

Hatred rises within me and I glare down at her; my hands trembling violently as I try to control this powerful wave of emotion.

I don't let myself cry.

She has left me alone to face the threat of the Hunger Games that will always hang over my head because I am the daughter of the victor.

She has condemned me to the arena.


	2. Prospectives

_Prospectives_

* * *

I awake with a start; the memory of my nightmare still flashing before my eyes.

I hear a footstep creak against the floorboards of my room, and a sigh gushes out from between my lips, "Get out of my room Stelson," I say wearily, without even opening my eyes. I don't need to; Stelson is very predictable.

"How did you know that it was me?" he whines grumpily.

"Because it's always you," I mutter under my breath, finally opening my eyes and surveying the boy who stands in my room. I glance over at his familiar shaggy blonde hair, and skinny frame that has come from spending a lifetime residing within the Community Home. Ever since I arrived here six years ago he has followed me around like a dog. A dog that refuses to leave me alone no matter how badly I might treat it.

"I said, get out," I snap at him impatiently, glancing over at my clock and wincing as I see the time. "It's 6 in the morning, idiot. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to surprise you," he mutters, his eyes remained trained on the floor as he explains this to me, "I thought I would come and wish you good luck before anyone else did."

_How bloody thoughtful. _I don't think that luck will do me any good in this case. I've been waiting for my name to be called out for five years now. It's either today, or a year today.

"Nerine!" he bursts out, practically stomping his feet against the floor as his tantrum threatens to erupt, "aren't you happy? You were supposed to be happy that I'd woken up extra early, and snuck into the girl's dorms. Even the night guard didn't see me," he finishes, his chest swelling proudly.

"Well done," I say heavily, _it's not like she'll be passed out somewhere, completely oblivious to anything that happens within the Home._ "Now, can you please leave me alone?"

"But I'm scared." You really wouldn't believe that this kid was fourteen years old. I would've thought that growing up in the Community Home would have hardened him somewhat, but clearly that can't be true. Otherwise he wouldn't spend all his time hiding so that the older kids don't spot him.

He doesn't do himself any favours by hanging around me though. The boys in this home are very... masculine, and so, to them, spending all of your time with a girl is about the most emasculating thing that you can do.

"What are you scared of?" I demand impatiently. What can he possibly be scared of now? I've lost count of the many times that he has visited my room in the late hours of the night, distressed by some nightmare or other.

I don't know why he latched onto me in the first place. I must be the least maternal person in this place. The girl who I shared a room with before I reached seventeen and was given my own was called Rosa and she's the one who all the little kids normally gravitate towards. Because she'll give them a wide smile, and share her rations with anyone who looks too skinny. Maybe I should send Stelson in her direction.

"I had a nightmare," he tells me, his eyes filling up with tears as he speaks.

_Another one? _I'm often woken up by my nightmares in the middle of the night – nightmares filled with images of syringes and dark nights where reality seems to be suspended and you can't trust that anything is real – but I keep it to myself.

"What was it about this time?" I reply heavily, letting him know clearly how I feel about him turning up in my room to spout his problems into my ears. Yet again.

He sits down on the edge of my bed, curling his legs gingerly underneath him and turning to face me with wide dark eyes that are filled up with fear. "I dreamt that I got reaped and then I was in the arena," he stumbles over his words slightly as he tells the story of his dream, "it was this big swampy place. And there were loads of those lizard things... the ones that Prius always talks about."

Prius; a huge lump of muscle who likes telling the little kids about animals with lots of claws and teeth in order to keep them up all night. Unfortunately, Stelson tends to also get drawn into those conversations.

"Alligator," I tell him and gesture for him to continue retelling his nightmare.

"Oh yeah, Alligator. Well, there were loads of alligators. And I was in the career alliance. But then one of them turned into an alligator," a shudder ripples through his fragile young body and I have to work hard to suppress an eye roll. It isn't exactly realistic, as nightmares go. In my opinion, it's always the dreams that seem like they could actually happen which are the scariest. Or the ones about things that have already happened. Once anything implausible occurs in a dream, that's when I wake up because I can't be scared of something that I don't take seriously.

How can a human morphing into an alligator be keeping Stelson up at night? It's never going to happen.

"Well, I'm sure you're safe from alligators here," I tell him, adopting a bright tone in the hope that it might cheer him up.

"It wasn't the alligators that scared me, it was the Hunger Games." This isn't really a conversation that I want to have with him. It's common knowledge that my mother won the Hunger Games twenty years ago and I constantly have to put up with kids asking me questions about the Games. Like I'm some kind of expert. Most of the time I just remind them that I wasn't actually the one who ended up in the arena and send them on their way.

"You know all about the Games, right?"

_Here we go. _"No Stelson, my mum knew all about the Hunger Games." And she's gone now, so good luck trying to ask her about it. "I'm going to go and have a shower."

I stretch my arms and force myself to leave the warm cocoon of my bed covers. One upside of being woken up early is the fact that I might get the chance to use the showers before the hot water runs out. Mornings are never my strong point, and so normally the water is practically ice by the time I have a shower.

I gather my clothes from where they're bundled messily at the bottom of my bed, but then I remember what day it is and let out a slight sigh. Matron will punish anyone who doesn't wear their best clothing on the day of the Reaping because she doesn't want to turn up to the town square leading a bunch of ragged kids who look like they've just rolled straight out of bed.

I walk over to my wardrobe and jerk the doors open, surveying the contents with distaste.

"Nerine?"

"I thought I asked you to leave," I say, without bothering to turn around.

"Are you nervous about today?"

I whirl round, anger blazing along my arms and legs as I look at him, cowering against the duvet. "Get out!" I yell at him, my voice tearing from my throat, and I take a menacing step towards him when he doesn't move a muscle. "Now," I say, lowering my voice and taking another step in his direction. "Stelson, I'm not messing around. If you're not out of here in the next three seconds then I will _chuck _you out of here."

I narrow my eyes, and the message must finally get through to him because he darts to the door, throwing me a reproachful look as he disappears out into the corridor.

I turn back to my wardrobe, and pick out the green dress that I've worn for my last three Reapings. It's about the only decent piece of clothing that I own, but I can't help feeling that I'm tempting fate every time I put it on because it was the dress that my mother had worn when she was reaped to enter the Games.

A shudder passes over my body as I stroke the soft emerald fabric; I don't like the thought of wearing it, especially because I know that it's been to the Capitol, but I don't really feel that I have much of a choice. There's certainly nothing else in my wardrobe that I can put on without getting shouted at.

I bump straight into Mai as I head towards the showers and she gives me a playful shove back. "Watch where you're going, sleepyhead," she tells me with a grin.

Mai arrived at the Community Home at about the same time I did, and she's the one person in this dump that I actually feel comfortable around. "How come you're up so early? It's still dark; this isn't like you!"

I roll my eyes at her, "Stelson," I retort grumpily, knowing that she'll understand. She's had the full report of all of my problems with that kid, and she just smiles at me. "I'm making use of it, and getting into the showers while the heating is still on."

Her face suddenly turns serious, and I know what she's about to ask, so I just shoot her a warning look. "I'll see you later, ok?" I tell her firmly, and push past her to reach the showers.

My shower starts off pretty nice and warm; it's only a slight dribble of water so you have to stand under it for a pretty long time if you actually want to get clean, but it's not so bad. I tilt my head upwards and get a face full of hot water, making me sigh happily. Maybe it would be worth getting up this early everyday in order to get a warm shower.

I jump violently as the water suddenly turns icy and I swear in annoyance as it dribbles over my body. I still have a head full of shampoo, so I have no choice but to stick my head back under it. It feels even colder than usual now that I've treated myself with the warm water.

After I've dried myself off I slip into the dress, wincing at the feel of the soft fabric against my skin. I resent the idea that my mother was once in this same position as well; putting the dress on and trying to make herself look presentable in case her name was pulled from the glass ball.

I still have nightmares about her Hunger Games sometimes; I watched it enough times when I was a kid to get the memories pretty much implanted into my mind. And sometimes it's enough to make me think that maybe I would have done exactly what she did, and just freed myself from having to remember. But then I think about how I was an eleven year old little girl, who still needed her mum, and I can't suppress the resentment that surges through my body.

I shake my head to clear them of these thoughts, and survey myself in the stained mirror in the corner. My dark hair hangs limply around my face and I run my hand through it; my fingertips catching on the split ends. My cheekbones are slightly burnt after I spent all day outside yesterday and I flinch as I stretch the red skin slightly.

Matron won't be impressed if I try to go to the Reapings looking like this. But as I flick through my almost empty make-up bag, I realise it's pretty futile anyway. I don't have anything that could cover up the burn marks, and most of my make-up is worn away and so won't work properly any more.

I shrug my shoulders at my reflection and head downstairs for breakfast, preparing myself for an onslaught of anger from Matron.

Mai waves at me from across the other side of the dining room, and pats the seat beside with a wide smile. I don't know how she can possible be feeling happy today; the weight of the Reapings has settled heavily onto my shoulders and I feel like it's compressing my lungs.

"Nice shower?" she asks the moment I slump down beside her.

"No," I grumble dully, "the hot water went off while my hair was still soaked in shampoo."

She gives me a sympathetic look, but that's all, because that's just a part of daily life at the Community Home.

I duck my head quickly as Matron enters the room. She's about fifty years old, I would guess, with iron grey hair that always remains neatly twisted at the nape of her neck, no matter how many fights she has to intervene in. Her eyes are about the same shade as her hair, and she has a way of looking straight at you that compels you to blurt out the truth, no matter how much you try to hold it in. Her nose is straight, and I swear that her nostrils are so wide to enable her to sniff out any kind of trouble within the Home.

All in all, she's not a woman that you want to be messing around with.

I often wonder why she ended up here; was it her choice or was this job a last resort for her? She's been here ever since I first arrived, and from the way some of the others kids talk about her, she's been a constant presence here for some time.

She spots my untidy, tangled hair from across the room and makes a beeline towards me. She always pays special attention to me on Reaping days because she knows that she chances are, I'll be selected and she doesn't want me showing up the Community Home when I step onto that stage.

"Nerine Leith?"

I jump violently as her harsh voices sounds from behind me, and I wheel my head around in confusion. I hadn't even seen her cross the room.

"Yes, ma'am?" I reply, trying to inject a demure note into my tone. From the look on her face, my efforts haven't succeeded.

"What's the meaning of this?" she asks bluntly, her hands gesturing upwards at me hair, her eyes narrowing to let me know that she's not very impressed with me.

I shrug, and I try to focus on my breakfast. I'm not in a confrontational mood, and I certainly don't want to get into an argument with her in the middle of the dining room. Her claw-like hand descends onto my shoulder and grips it so tight that it's almost painful.

This is my first warning. If I put another foot out of line then I'll be sent to the punishment room to see Mr Grausam and his cane. And I really have no desire to end up in there again.

"I'll go sort it out," I mutter, glancing vaguely in her direction as I do so, and she looks slightly surprised that I haven't tried to test her patience any further. Normally I don't tend to take orders lying down and she can count on me to put up a bit of a fight. But I just can't bring myself to do that today, particularly as part of me feels that she does perhaps have a point. And that at least if I do end up the stage, I won't jeopardise the slight chance I have by looking like I was dragged through a hedge backwards.

One hour later, with my hair combed neatly back into a ponytail and the creases smoothed out of my dress, I find myself walking towards the town square with Mai's arm locked tightly through mine.

Her footsteps grow slower and slower the closer we come to the centre of the District and by the time the stage is in sight, she's barely moving her feet at all and we've fallen well behind the rest of the group from the Community Home.

I glance sideways at her, and jab her in the side with my elbow. She whips her head around and glares at me in annoyance, "Do you have to do that? You've got pretty pointy elbows you know?" She rubs her side and looks sorry for herself.

I just laugh, and give her another shove. Getting to know Mai, I've realised that the best way to deal with her when she gets in one of her stormy moods is to just ignore the fact that she's angry.

It never fails, and I watch now as a smile spills over her lips. She pokes me back, but we both stiffen as we enter the seething mass in front of the stage.

Community Home kids have a certain unhealthy, slightly hungry look that inspires derision from the other members of District 4. The glances we get from the other members of the crowd now certainly aren't friendly, and one snooty nosed girl jerks back as we approach to avoid touching us.

I just roll my eyes in Mai's direction and she shrugs it off. We're both fairly used to this prejudice now; we've just had to get used to it. When I had first arrived at the Home, and first experienced the behaviour of the outside world, I had tried to avoid encountering other people as much as I possibly could.

It's quite lucky that Mai forced me to go outside otherwise I would have become a recluse by now because there's a fairly dominant part of me that questions whether going outside is really worth it when you have to endure these kinds of stares.

We eventually shove our way into the seventeen year old section, causing a few annoyed grumbles to erupt behind us as we make our way to the front of the ropes. It's always entertaining to watch the escort up on stage, particularly this new one. Cookie Yarson.

It was her first year in our district last year; apparently she got promoted from District 6 for "exceptional work," but I'm not really all that sure what that entailed. She's a tall, spindly woman who seems almost ungainly in her movements. Her skin looks almost human, but it's slightly too peachy, and the diamonds studded up her arms kind of ruin any human illusion that the skin may have created. Her hair is a strange aqua colour, which I assume is supposed to represent our District, along with her flowing blue and purple robes. She looks like she's trying _way _too hard to be accepted.

"Isn't it an exciting day?" she jabbers excitedly into the microphone, casting a wide smile over the heads of the District. There's a slight murmur of agreement but it's clear that no one sees this day in the same strange optimistic light that she does.

"I'll tell you something, I've had a look at the tributes from the first three districts, and it certainly seems as though we're in for a treat this year!"

My jaw clenches tightly; you would never believe that she's talking about kids fighting to kill each other when she talks in this way. But, of course, the treat that she's referring to is what she considers will be an extra-exciting Hunger Games.

The mayor, a thin hook-nosed man with hair that seems to be receding at an alarming rate, steps up to the podium, and clears his throat gruffly into the microphone. He wears a familiar expression of distaste on his face as he starts to read out the Treaty. That slight twist of his mouth tells the world that he doesn't agree with any of this, but also that he's do cowardly to do anything to prevent it from happening.

So is the world in which we live.

His voice drones on and on, and the midday sun beats relentlessly down onto us. A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek and I shift uncomfortably as the thick material of my dress traps the heat around my body.

I can feel my face beginning to burn again, and I raise a hand to touch my cheeks. Yep, they're definitely overheating again; I can feel the familiar sensation that lets me know that sunburn is imminent.

The mayor comes to an anti-climatic ending, and clears his throat once more as he steps down from the podium, wringing his hands nervously.

"So," Cookies gabbers in enthusiasm, spreading her hands in the direction of the victors who sit perched on chairs at various points around the stage, "now it's time for the really thrilling part."

She starts explaining the process of the Hunger Games to the crowd, which I always find to be a slightly pointless exercise. If there's anyone who doesn't know about the Games, then they've obviously been residing under a rock for most of their life.

I scan the victors, trying to remember where my mother used to sit when she was up on that stage. It was twenty years ago that she was crowned victor of her Hunger Games.

The faces of the victors have been a familiar presence all of my life. There's old Mags, who taught me to knit when I was younger, but has been growing steadily more senile in the past few years. I don't think they let her mentor anymore. Finnick Odair sits beside her, as beautiful as he always is, he shoots a small smile in the direction of Annie Cresta, who I swear is completely _fucking _insane. Maybe it's just me, but I've always felt like there's something going on between the pair of them. There are seven victors up on the stage; we've amassed quite a number over the years.

My attention snaps back to Cookie, who has suddenly fallen silent and is making her way over to the glass balls which contain the slips of the potential tributes. My heart rate accelerates painfully as her hands descend into the ball, and I wonder just how many of those slips have got my name scrawled across them.

She begins to unfold the piece of paper, and the tension within the square rises until you can barely hear anyone breathing. Frieda squeezes my hand tightly and I feel how sweaty her palm is.

All I can think about how the odds are completely and utterly against me.

"And our female tribute is..." _cue drum roll... _and the whole crowd draws a collective breath.

It's me... it's not me... it's

"Nerine Leith"

Shit, it's me.

I throw Mai what I hope is a vaguely reassuring smile, but I don't know if it works because she just stares back at me with tears threatening to spill over. Then I force myself to lock my jaw into a hard line, to clench my fists and walk onto that stage without giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.

Even though I've been expecting this for my whole life – what would make the Hunger Games more interesting than throwing a daughter of a victor into the arena? – my stomach still flips anxiously and my hands tremble as I feel the gaze of every single member of my district upon my body.

_You can't afford to be scared, _I remind myself, _just suck it up and get onto that stage._

Cookie watches me in anticipation as I try to avoid tripping over my own feet as I ascend the stairs. "So," her squeaky voice sounds suddenly in the microphone, "how exciting that the daughter of Marina Leith has been chosen for this years' Hunger Games!"

She grabs my fingers with a claw like hand, and shakes it firmly, smiling at me eagerly. She probably thinks that this could get her promoted even further up the ladder. Maybe she'll be in District One this time next year. Well, I'm determined not to help her get that promotion, and I narrow my eyes in her direction to let her know just how I feel about her.

She looks slightly taken aback by this – what was she expecting, utter adoration on my part because she tried to shake my hand? _Yeah, thanks, but no thanks._

"And now for the male tribute. Isn't this exciting?"

If she uses the word 'exciting' one more time I'm going to yank that ridiculous wig off her head and toss it into the crowd.

I'm so busy fantasising about how absurd she would look if she was bald underneath her wig that I'm not really concentrating on what she's doing. I can picture her hands flying to her head and her mouth emitting a high pitched scream.

I smirk in amusement, and don't quite catch what she says.

I hear the next part though.

"... Stelson Greer!"

My eyes find his skinny frame within the crowd; his sunken cheeks and waxen skin quivering with terror.

I run a hand brutally through my hair, almost yanking it out at the roots.

_Today really has been a killer. _


	3. Farewells

_Farewells_

* * *

A peacekeeper grabs my arm, yanking it roughly behind my back as I start to descend the stairs. _I am actually capable of walking, surprising as that may be for a community home girl, _I think irritably as I swear he tries to pop the bone out of its socket.

I can hear Stelson's anxious breathing coming from beside me as we walk, but I lock my neck tightly so that I don't have to look at him. I know that he'll expect me to act as his protector or something in front of the other tributes and I don't feel that this is quite the moment to be crushing his hopes in that respect.

Seriously, this kid needs to man up and stop expecting me to always be there for him because, news-flash, I'm not exactly the most fucking maternal of people. He needs to clue me in to the reason why he's always following me around.

I hear a whine of pain escape from his lips and I refuse to let myself turn around – I'm not planning on looking weak while I know there will be cameras focused on us. The other tributes only know that I'm the daughter of a victor and that should give me some pull over them for now. I don't need that to be taken away from me by being seen flapping around Stelson on nation television.

I have to clamp down on my lip to distract myself from looking around though because he's just so damn fragile, and everyone here knows that his chances of making it back out of that arena are probably less than nothing. And as much as I may want to push him away and act aloof, Stelson is the one kid who has the ability to capture my emotions and I know that he is perfectly aware of this.

_Damn, trust me to get thrown into the Hunger Games with the one person who I might actually risk myself to try and protect._ Don't get me wrong, I know that he's a complete wimp but since I arrived at the Community Home he's seemed like a little brother to me; desperately annoying but I still feel an irritating pang of affection towards him. I hate that he has power over me like that.

The peacekeepers shove me unceremoniously into a claustrophobic box of a room, with pale white-washed walls and a couple of mangy sofas shoved up against the walls. I think they're feeling slightly optimistic about how many visitors I'm going to receive. There'll be Mai and... nope, I've run out of names. In fact, Matron might not even allow Mai to come so maybe I'll be in the same boat as Stelson and no one whatsoever will come and see me off.

For a second, I wonder if I would've gone to say goodbye to Stelson if only he had been chosen for the Games. Probably not, I decide after a few minutes, it wouldn't exactly have been much fun.

The door creaks open, and Mai launches herself at me, practically knocking me off my feet. "Ouch," I mutter against her shoulder, "what are you doing?"

"You can't leave me in the madhouse by myself," she exclaims, pulling away from me with a disheartened expression on her face and making me laugh. Which seems slightly strange seeing as I'm off to the Capitol in less than an hour and my stomach is swimming with nerves.

"I'm sure you can look after yourself," I retort with a grin.

"No, Neri, you have to promise me that you're coming home. I can't cope in there without you," she tells me sternly, and I find it hard to meet her eyes.

"Of course – and then you can come and live in my victor's house with me, and we'll never spend another night in that place again."

"You can do it," she grabs my shoulder," come on, you've trained for this." They make everyone in the Community Home over the age of eleven put in a couple of hours of training every day, just so that we don't embarrass ourselves (or, more importantly in their eyes, embarrass the Home) but it's nowhere near as much as the average Career tribute and this will put me at an instant disadvantage. From the look in Mai's eyes, she knows that just as well as I do, but clearly neither of us are going to mention it.

So I don't bother replying to this because, honestly, what's the point? We both know I can't promise that I'll come home because, chances are, I won't. I can promise her that I'll _try _to make it back home but that probably won't be good enough for her and it will let her know that I'm in the worst possible mindset for this.

"Nerine, you have to come back," she says firmly, "remember that trick Matron taught us for defence."

Unfortunately, I remember her tale of eye gauging methods all too well and a shudder ripples through me as I consider the idea of actually doing that to another human being. I'm not saying that I plan to just roll over in the arena and let myself get killed without even putting up a good fight, but I do intend to try to hang to just a shred of humanity and that certainly means that I don't want to be gauging anyone's eyes out.

I meet her eyes, "You know that I'll try Mai," I say impatiently, "but I'm not going to make you any empty promises. If anything happens, then you just have to move on."

"_Trying _isn't good enough," she snaps but I simply turn away from her so that I don't have to continue this argument any longer. I'll do my best to make it back to her and she's knows that. What more can I do?

I can still feel her eyes on me though and I force myself to blink rapidly to keep myself from looking stupid and crying in front of her. As I let my eyes trail back over the walls to glance at her again I see her hands have moved to the thin chain around her neck and she's trying desperately to pull it off. For a second I'm worried that she's going to break it, so I start towards her.

"What are you doing?" I ask, confused as to why she's attempting to break her most treasured possession in front of me. If it's to make me feel bad or something then it's not going to work.

"It's your token, you idiot," she tells me grumpily.

"Don't be stupid Mai – I'm not going to take that necklace from you." It's the only thing she has left of her mother's after both of her parents were killed in a fire, and there's no way she's giving it me to take into the arena.

"It's your promise that you're going to come back home again," she says, glancing at me determinedly; her dark eyes flashing with anger as she watches me, "because I want it back again." I don't like to break her spirit by telling her that she'll get it back no matter what happens to me, but I assume that she doesn't want me to tell her that she'll be able to remove her necklace from my neck herself when my body arrives back in the District. _If_, I force myself to think, not when.

I heave a sigh, and dart round behind her to undo the stiff clasp of her necklace and the slinky thing falls into my fingertips. It's a silvery, but starting to rust now seeing as Mai never takes it off, not even when we have to help out on the boats and end up being dunked in the ocean multiple times. There are a couple of small white pearls dotted along its length and I know that it will remind me of home once I enter the arena.

She takes it from my hand and then fastens it around my own neck, "Promise you'll bring it back to me?" she says, fixing me with a stare that makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Of course," I answer because, really, what else can I say? _No actually, I've already decided that the only way you're getting this thing back is from around my dead neck. _Yeah, maybe not.

The door suddenly creaks open, and a heavily bearded Peacekeeper sticks his head around the corner, "Five more minutes," he says sternly, with no trace on his face that he actually gives a damn.

"What's the point?" I can't help muttering under my breath after his face has retreated from the doorway, "It's not like I'm going to get anymore visitors."

Mai says nothing in response to this, simply wraps her arms around me tightly and I can feel her shaking with barely held in sobs. I can't help but feel grateful that she doesn't let herself cry in front of me because then it would be much harder for me to hold back my own tears.

The door opens once more and the Peacekeeper informs us that Mai's time is up. I glance at her almost desperately, not knowing quite how to say this final good bye.

"I'll see you in a few weeks," she says, glancing pointedly at the chain around my neck and then she squeezes my hand tightly and walks out of the room, leaving me standing and smiling; wondering how she can have the conviction to say something like that.

My next visitor is something of a surprise; my old roommate, Rosa, stands in front of me, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. We've barely spoken since I turned seventeen five months ago and moved out of the room we shared. We had never really got on with each other that well, especially because Rosa resented my attitude towards Stelson.

"I'm so sorry Neri," she whispers now, her blue eyes sparkling with water and her mouth trembling sadly.

I just grin back at her – it's much easier than trying to express to her how I really feel, "It's fine Rosa: everyone knew that this day was coming so it's not that much of a shock really."

"Stelson's not in a good way," she tells me dully and I glance at her in surprise.

"You went to see Stelson?" I ask her, my voice clearly showing my confusion.

"Of course," she replies, and I'm left thinking that maybe it shouldn't have been that much of a shock because she has always made it her business to take care of the fragile ones within the Community Home, and he's as fragile as they come.

Rosa glances at the door, and lets out a sigh, "I should go. Just... take care of yourself, ok?"

I want to laugh at these words, but I restrain myself because I sense that she probably won't appreciate it very much.

"And you," I murmur back. She lurches forwards and squeezes my shoulders so hard that it actually hurts – I wouldn't have thought she'd have been capable of force like that.

I assume that my visitors are over, so when my next one walks into the room my mouth falls open in shock.

"Shut your mouth before something flies into it," the iron-haired lady standing in front of me tells me sharply.

"Yes Matron," I mutter in response and quickly press my lips together. I have absolutely no idea what she's doing here, unless it's Community Home policy that she comes to see off those who have been reaped. I can't think why she would bother though.

"I just came to tell you to do us proud," she informs me which clears it up quickly – of course, she's worried about their reputation.

"I will," I say, nodding my head firmly; I don't plan on embarrassing anyone in that arena.

"Good luck," she says and I can't help a smirk crossing my face as she shakes my hand and disappears from the room. Even formal when she comes to say goodbye to me; I guess I hadn't really expected her to show me any emotion.

The Peacekeeper returns and informs me it's time to get on the train. My stomach flutters anxiously as my eyes land first on the black cars waiting outside to whisk us away and then on Stelson who already sits huddled in the back of one of them, his eyes trained miserably on the Peacekeeper who's guarding him.

_What am I supposed to do about him?_


	4. Underdogs

_Underdogs_

_

* * *

_

The moment that I'm pushed out of the car at the station, I want to cover my eyes before I'm blinded and press my hands against my ears before my eardrums burst. Bright flashes from cameras cause spots to appear in my eyes and I meet a wall of sound as people start shouting my name.

I don't know how to react to any of this – I know they're only excited by me because of who my mother is but I'm not sure what the best way to use their interest will be. I decide that I can't be bothered dealing with this right now; after all, isn't this what the mentors are there for? So I just adopt a look of mild disinterest and try to encourage the Peacekeepers holding my arms to pick up the pace.

I really have no desire to remain under the scrutiny of the Capitol cameras for longer than absolutely necessary. Particularly when I am fully aware that I will undoubtedly be under a lot more observation than the other tributes this year because of my mother.

This is just another reason for me to resent her and I clench my fists tightly, hoping that the cameras won't pick up on my reaction. I can't help being angry whenever I think of her though – she must have surely realised what she was abandoning me to.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I finally step onto the train, and though I can hear Stelson's noises of admiration behind me, I barely spare a glance for the decor inside the train. I'm not really in the mood to be impressed by anything that the Capitol has to offer right now.

I remember a time when even just the idea of the Capitol would excite me and I would be so jealous of my mother whenever she would have to mentor for the Hunger Games and get to head off there in a fancy train and eat their fancy food. I had used to watch the Games with avid attention – my eyes glued to the screen and willing my mother's tributes on. I could never understand why she was never as enthusiastic about it as I was, or why she told me off when I had exclaimed that I wanted to volunteer as soon as I was old enough.

I don't think I had even quite been able to comprehend it when she had died. In my childish mind there had been part of me that had believed it was an accident.

It had taken me seeing the other victors to finally realise _why_ my mother had wanted out. You see them on television – the alcoholic victors, the abusive ones, the perpetually silent ones, the twitchy ones, the drug addict ones just as my mother had once been.

Still, if they could deal with it enough to at least stay alive, then why couldn't she?

I find myself being propelled along a long corridor and I pull myself out my thoughts long enough to glance around at the over-the-top luxury of the train. Seriously, why would anyone put marble in a train?

I look back at Stelson who walks a little way behind me – his mouth and eyes both wide open as he takes in the decor. I supposed that after living his whole life in the Community Home that this is something he never expected to see. Whereas I had spend the first eleven years of my life in a Victor's House. While it doesn't compare to this of course, it was still fairly ostentatious. And besides, I don't want to be impressed by this so I'm not really allowing myself to look. I want to continue blaming the Capitol for my mother's death, because it makes it a hell of a lot easier.

"You'll meet your mentors in there," one of the Peacekeepers grunts, gesturing to a door just in front of us. They leave and I can't help wondering whether they escort everyone onto the train, or just the "dirty little orphans" from the Community Home because they're worried we might nick something.

"Neri," Stelson says from beside me as I hesitate in front of the door.

I can't do this right now – I can't talk to him because I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to him. Instead I reach for the handle and slide the door open.

Inside sit our two mentors and Cookie, gathered around a glass topped table groaning with various delicacies, all of which turn my stomach. So many of them are shellfish – I suppose to make us feel at home – but it just makes me feel worse. I know that if I hadn't been chosen today, then fishing is where I'd be, and it's exactly where I want to be. Not on this claustrophobic train with Stelson who makes me feel guilty even by just being here with me. But on a fishing boat – the salty spray staining my cheeks and the breeze rippling through my hair. It may be backbreaking work, but it's a place I feel familiar in. But here, I'm about as far out of my comfort zone as I could get.

I recognise both of the mentors who now gesture us into the room. The woman, Cordula, won the Games about ten years ago. She watches me now through her iron grey eyes, so intently that I start to feel uncomfortable and want to look away. They always used to show the tapes of her Hunger Games during training because it had been proof that the underdog could win, and we were the biggest underdogs there were.

The other one is Caspian; he won the Games two years ago when everyone had underestimated him. He'd been up against some fairly nasty opponents as well so I have no idea how he did it. I'm not too happy about having such an inexperienced mentor though; I'd rather have someone who had been doing this for years. _At least we have Cordula as well,_ I think.

Cordula surges to her feet as I step lightly through the door way, and she holds out a stiff hand that I look at awkwardly. Does she want me to shake it? I've never been particularly good at social niceties. I extend my hand anyway, and find it clasped firmly in between both of hers. "I don't suppose you remember me, do you?"

I shrug in response to this question and draw my hand back, pressing it uncomfortably against my side. "I used to look after you, when your mother was-" she trails off for a moment, "when your mother was ill."

_Ahh, you mean when my mother was passed out someone or injecting herself with some vile toxins. Ill is a very euphemistic way of putting it._

I choose to ignore her and take a seat at the opposite side of the table. Cookie leans towards me with a bright look on her face, "You must be so excited to be following in your mother's footsteps?"

I decide not to justify that question with a response and I just glance away from her, my eyes landing on Caspian as I do.

He's watching Cookie with a mildly amused expression on his face, but his dark eyes seem shrouded in sadness. I certainly wouldn't believe that he's nineteen years old – he appears so much older and carries an air of weariness with him. My stomach clenches once more as I realise that this is what the Hunger Games do to a person.

I start suddenly as he notices me watching him, and his smile grows even wider as I quickly avert my eyes and for some reason I feel a faint blush begin to rise under my skin. Luckily the sunburnt patches on my cheeks will cover it but still, I'm being utterly fucking pathetic.

I don't have time to dwell on my reaction because Stelson and Cordula have taken their seats and she is leaning towards us expectantly.

"I'm assuming that both of you are going to take part in the traditional alliance?" she asks, knowing that we will understand what she means. It's a long followed tradition, since almost the very first Hunger Games, that the tributes from the more rich and powerful districts join together in order to take down the weaker tributes. This alliance is full of trained tributes, the majority of who will have volunteered in order to try and win the glory and status that the title of "Victor" brings with it. I can understand why the tributes from the other districts might despise us because of it, but I'm planning on doing everything I can to make it home, and there's certainly safety in numbers.

At least there's no pretence in the traditional alliance – the tributes always know that the others are there to win and there's none of this stupid making-friends-with-your-allies junk that always goes on between the other districts.

I glance up, realising that she's still waiting for an answer, and I nod my head tightly. Being part of the alliance is a good way to ensure that you'll make it past the bloodbath.

But my eyes can't help but stray over to Stelson's skinny form. The tributes from one and two will eat him alive – he's completely the opposite of the stereotypical tribute from our district and I know that joining this alliance might put him in danger.

I press my nails into my palm, and force myself to concentrate on what is really the most important thing. If I worry about Stelson, then I'll be distracted – and no matter which way you look at it, there's no way that both Stelson and I can make it out of that arena.

This is what I try to tell myself, but when he raises his head to give a gentle nod of agreement to Cordula's question, I have to look away to ensure that he doesn't see the expression on my face.

Once again, I wonder why no one volunteered for him. But then, volunteering is spasmodic within District 4. I remember a few years ago, there were five guys who tried to volunteer, and three girls, but for the last couple of years, volunteers have been virtually non-existent. I think it's because, recently, the tributes from District 2 have been even stronger than usual and no one really believes they can take them on. _Great._

"OK, that makes things easier. We'll be mentoring you together, if that's alright with you?"

Stelson nods eagerly before I can say anything. Honestly, I would prefer to be mentored separately because I don't think I'll be able to bear watching him, but now I don't have the heart to say otherwise. _I must be going soft or something, _I think in annoyance and lean my forearms onto the table.

Caspian pushes a bowl in our direction, "Have something to eat," he tells us.

Stelson doesn't need telling twice and drags a plate of small white sandwiches towards him. He sticks one in his mouth and begins to chew with relish. Then he shrugs, and seems to decide that he still has plenty of room in his mouth. He pops another one in, and his cheeks bulge out as he struggles eat his massive mouthful.

I can't help but laugh at his utter lack of table manners, "Matron wouldn't be impressed if she could see you now," I tell him teasingly.

He starts to laugh, and manages to sputter breadcrumbs onto the table, which only makes him laugh even harder. The laughter is slightly too high pitched and bordering on hysterical though, and I realise that he if wasn't laughing, he'd most probably be crying.

I bite my lip, trying to stop myself laughing as Cookie stands up, looking utterly scandalised and brushing crumbs from her robes. "I think I'll go and eat in my quarters," she says, and darts from the room before any more food can be sprayed in her direction.

I can't help the burst of laughter that escapes from my chest once the door snaps shut, but a stern look from Cordula has me swallowing it back down.

"You shouldn't get on the wrong side of your escort," she says firmly, "she'll be able to find us more sponsors for you if she actually likes you."

That subdues me, and I press my lips together tightly, not wanting to get in the conversation that begins at the table. Cordula and Caspian make some stilted small talk about who they suspect the other mentors will be this year and Stelson continues stuffing his face.

When he finally seems to have eaten enough, Cordula glances between the two of us. "The recap of the reapings will be in about an hour, so I suggest you go and get changed, take a shower if you want to and meet us back in the living room to watch it."

I shrug and stand immediately, prepared to do anything else as long as it means leaving the stifled atmosphere in this room.

Once I get to my room, I survey it with distaste. It's a far cry from my box sized room back at the Community Home – a massive four poster bed stands in pride of place at the centre of the room and I lean forward to touch the purple velvet cover.

I roll my eyes and wonder for a moment how the Capitol citizens can sleep safe and sound in their beds while the rest of us worry about the Hunger Games and the Peacekeepers that roam the streets. But then I suppose if I'm being honest, I'd be exactly the same way if I had been brought up in the Capitol. Besides, the majority of the people in my district actually support the games and I suppose I should consider winning an honour like the rest of them. Anything to make this easier.

* * *

Once I'm dressed in a pair of thick black leggings, a soft blue tunic and a pair of leather lace up boots, and have examined some of the strange buttons on the shower, I make my way back down the hallway, promising myself that I'll try out the shower as soon as the recap is over.

However, it doesn't take me long to realise that I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. All the doors look exactly the same to me, and there's no way I'm going to try every single one until I finally locate the living room.

I sigh heavily and glance around me, guessing that there must be some staff somewhere on this train who can point me in the right direction.

"Neri," a voice sounds behind me, making me jump violently. Cursing myself for being such a pathetic idiot, I turn around and find Stelson staring at me. It's the first time I've seen him wearing something that isn't primarily rags.

"What do you want Stelson?" I say heavily and sigh as his face falls at my tone.

"Nothing," he mumbles under his breath, "we're supposed to go to the television room, right?"

I nod my head in response, "Any idea where it is?" I ask him, just in case.

"Yeah, Caspian said it was the last door on the left," he replies and I bite my lip at the mention of Caspian. There's something about him that makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable, but I suppose it's just because he won the Games so recently and I've seen what victory can do to people.

I wait for Stelson to catch up to me, and then I fall into step with him. We're halfway along the corridor before I actually have the guts to say something to him.

"You alright?" I mutter, annoyed about the fact that I've actually said anything at all. The clever thing to do would be to just ignore him until we get into the arena, it might be less painful then.

He just replies with a nod and we carry on walking in silence. As we reach the door, he turns to me with wide, frightened eyes, and says determinedly, "I'm not going to be a burden for you Neri," and then he slides the door open and enters the room before I have time to do anything except splutter in response.

_It's a good thing, _I force myself to think as I follow him through the doorway, he has to accept that I'm not his _mother _or whatever else he may think about me. I resent the fact that I feel so bound to him, and it's all his fault because he's the one who latched onto me. And now here he is, making me feel guilty when I have nothing to feel guilty for.

I glare at him viciously as I throw myself down onto the sofa opposite him, and pretend I don't notice the confused glance that Cordula shoots at me.

"Right, are you ready for this then?" she asks. When Stelson and I both nod, Caspian crosses the room and presses the button to turn the television on.

I clench my fists and push confusing thoughts of Stelson and Caspian out of my mind as the recap starts.

District 1 is first, as always, and I sigh as I see the stereotypical beautiful blonde girl rush forwards to volunteer. She looks confident and extremely athletic as she reaches the stages and waves jauntily at the crowd.

The boy is almost as bad, but he doesn't actually volunteer and a grumpy expression crosses his face as he's pushed towards the stage by other members of the crowd. He barely even reacts when he reaches the stage, just narrows his eyes at the escort. I realise that he's almost certainly going to be trouble.

_This Hunger Games is definitely going to be full of clichés_, I think to myself as I watch a muscular girl from District 2 volunteer and then a boy with a brutal look in his eyes shoves the other potential volunteers out of the way.

I don't like the way this is going – it certainly puts Stelson and I at the bottom of the food chain in the Alliance. Well, actually it puts Stelson at the bottom.

I almost feel bad as I see a pair of skinny, fragile looking kids get selected from District 3, but I don't let myself because I know the weaker the other tributes are, the more chance I have of winning this thing.

Then we watch as Stelson and I are reaped. I'm relieved to find that I don't look that fazed by it, and the commentators go wild as they realise that I'm the daughter of a victor. I'm sure this will place me at the front of the viewer's minds. Nothing will ever cause them to remember Stelson though – he's visibly trembling as he ascends the stage. The commentators discuss how he is the complete opposite of a stereotypical District 4 tribute and I can't help but glance over at Stelson to see how he deals with this news.

I roll my eyes as I watch his head droop – I suppose it's not like I thought he was going to make some declaration about how he was going to prove them wrong, but still – and Caspian clasps a hand onto his shoulder. Stelson doesn't react though; just stares at his feet and knots his fingers together.

I turn back to the screen, intending to concentrate on the other tributes, but a headache is starting to pound at my temples, and all I really want is to collapse onto my bed. The other districts disappear into a blur, and I only notice some of them when Caspian or Cordula make comments about them.

"The girl from District 7 is absolutely massive, how did that happen?"

"The male tribute from District 10 looks like he could do some damage."

Finally Cookie says with disinterest, "Why are the tributes from District 12 always so boring?" and the recap is over.

I know I should be strategising and visualising which tributes I plan to take down, but I can't make my mind focus. I wonder what the other tributes are thinking of me right now – do the stronger tributes see a pathetic weakling who will cause them no bother once the Alliance breaks down? Are the weaker ones discussing me with hatred, assuming that I will kill them with no remorse?

And you know the worrying thing, I don't know which one of these perceptions I think is worse.

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/alerted/favourited this story :D I really appreciate it._

_Please review, because I love hearing what people think._


	5. Bravery

_Bravery_

_

* * *

_

I swear I'm going to slap this toad faced stylist in a moment – she actually seems to enjoy the pain that she's inflicting upon me. She gives another tug and rips away more of my leg hair. I clamp my teeth down onto my lips to stop myself snapping at her, and wish that I was blonde haired because then I would _not _be having this problem. Mai would be fine if she was in my position. I glare up at the toad-woman and the other member of my prep team.

According to them I have a _bad _attitude. Well, they can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I have no desire to impress them, and I much prefer it now that they've stopped trying to include me in their inane chatter. I don't particularly care which plastic faced idiot won the latest "talent" contest or who cheated on whom at some party last night.

Perhaps I can ask them to cut off my ears when they start on my hair.

"Perfect!" The toad suddenly announces with relish, and the other one claps her hands together as they both look at me. I feel pretty fucking exposed – though I supposed it isn't quite as bad as when they made me _strip _as soon as I walked into the room. Seriously, who do these people think they are that they would have that power over me? Though I suppose they've taken everything else from, so they might as well take my dignity as well.

"Stand up," the other one, with bright orange hair and a lime green star tattooed onto one of her eyelids, instructs me. "Is the bath ready, Hequet?" She asks, pushing me in the direction of the bathroom.

"Of course, Tifara," she chimes back – I've noticed that she has a strangely high voice for someone who's wide forehead and sunken eyes give her the resemblance of a reptile.

The pair of them practically shove me into the bath – Tifara grabs my shoulder brutally while Hequet loosens my robe. I balk at this, and try to pull away from them. "I'll do it myself," I snap impatiently. Cordula had advised me to be respectful towards my stylist and prep team, because it might influence how good a job they are prepared to do on me. But that flew out of the window the moment that these two introduced themselves, and it's too late to start being polite to them now. Besides, I've never been very good at concealing my anger, especially not now while I am so on edge.

I undo the cord, and sink down into the water – it's boiling hot, and I start and try to stand back up again. Tifara simply presses down on my shoulders and holds me there, "this will sooth your skin after the waxing, "she tells me impatiently and it's clear from her tone, and the firm way she grasps me, that I'm not going to be allowed to get back out until _they _deem that I'm allowed.

"We'll have to cut her hair next," Hequet says and I clench my jaw under the scrutiny of her gaze, "those split ends of hers are absolutely atrocious. I haven't seen a District 4 tribute in as bad a condition as this for years." I despise the fact that they're referring to me in third person – it's as though I don't even qualify as a real human being in their eyes. Maybe if I was in better _condition, _then they might have deigned to talk to me. Or possibly even ask how _I _feel about them hacking my hair off. Not that I particularly have an opinion either way.

"Yes," Tifara murmurs," I think it would look so much better if it was shorter – it would frame her face nicely."

I have absolutely no clue how your hair can frame your face – my hair is just an inconvenience; something that frizzes uncontrollably and gets tied back roughly to keep the flyaway hairs out of my eyes. It's not something to _frame _my face, or improve my appearance in anyway.

"What about the sunburn though?" Hequet demands, and I have to stifle a groan as the conversation goes on and on – neither of them looking at me, or consulting me about the decisions that they are making – but discussing how to make me into a better version of myself. Or, more ideally in their eyes, someone completely different, unrecognisable from who I am now.

* * *

I barely even recognise myself when they hold up the mirror, and show me what they've done to my hair. My dark hair – that once fell in tangles to below my shoulders is now cut to my jaw line. It's glossy and bounces slightly as I move my head to examine it more closely. But even though this new look intrigues me, I don't allow myself to like the way that it makes me look, because I promised myself that I would never like anything that came from the Capitol. In my mind – all the Capitol can provide is death, and suffering. And a swishy new haircut doesn't change that fact, so I simply clamp my lips shut and try to hide the emotions from my face.

I'm gratified to see that Tifara and Hequet look dismayed by my lack of response and I fold my arms tightly across my chest and try to look disappointed by what they've done to my hair.

Tifara clears her throat, and I twist my head to glance at her, "it's time for you to meet your stylist," she says – her previous excitement returned to her face and she claps her hands together in clear glee. I suppress another sigh – forcing myself to remain optimistic about the state of my stylist. At least I'm in one of the richer districts, because they tend to get the more skilled stylists, seeing as they all clamour for the districts that have the highest chance, percentage-wise, of becoming victors and then they will go down in history forever as the ones who styled a victor. I would feel bad for the lower districts, but if they get the crackpot stylists, then it will make me look better. And try as I might, I just don't have enough compassion in me to feel bad for wanting to win, even if it means wanting others to die.

I want to shut my eyes as the door slides open and I bite my lip as I take in the sight of my stylist. He's very tall, and extremely skinny with legs like a chicken and pointy elbows that seem as though they could inflict some serious damage. His hair has been dyed dark green and falls in glossy waves down to his shoulders and he has vines tattooed up the sides of both arms, and one side of his neck. The end of this tattoo curls around his cheekbone, ending up just underneath his eye. But this, in comparison to this clothes, is halfway normal.

I look him up and down – he's wearing a robe made out of bark. Or at least, synthetic bark, from the way that it's sparkling slightly, and leaves made of a strange metallic material adorn his waist. I've never seen a Capitol citizen who looks like this before – usually it's plastic clothes and extreme colours. I know the stylists are renowned for their extreme fashion sense, even by the standards of the Capitol citizens, but this is something else entirely.

"My name is Zen," he informs me in an airy tone, spreading his arms wide as he does so. I glance at him blankly, but Hequet and Tifara seem to understand what he wants and they each take one of his hands. Then they look pointedly towards me, and hold their hands out towards me. My jaws drops as I watch Zen close his eyes and begin to hum under his breath.

_You have got to be kidding me – this is my stylist? _This _is my stylist?_

"What are you doing?" I demand, rising to my feet but not moving towards them. I don't want to join in with whatever it is they think that they're doing.

"I need to feel your energy," Zen answers without opening his eyes, and he resumes his tuneless humming as though there had never been any interruption.

I take a step backwards, "Yeah, I'd prefer it if you'd leave my _energy _alone, actually," I tell him impatiently.

Zen drops the hands of Tifara and Hequet, and crosses the room towards me so quickly that I don't have time to back away from him. "You seem like a very angry person, child," he breathes sadly, watching me with wide eyes. He holds out his hands once more, and tries to take mine.

I jerk backwards, "I wonder why I'm angry..." I mutter under my breath and narrow my eyes at him, using the look I would always put on in the Community Home to get one of the younger kids to shut up and leave me alone. It's a look that Stelson has seen often in his life.

"Why don't we try some meditation? It might calm you down," he murmurs softly, in a sing-song tone of voice.

I look at him incredulously, "Meditation?" I demand – I'm starting to wonder if this guy has actually lost his mind. Talking about my _energy _and using words like _meditation. _

"Meditation is an internal state of relaxed awareness."

"An internal state of _fucking _what?" I ask furiously, struggling to keep my voice level as I try to process what he just said to me. Is someone having a laugh by assigning him to be my stylist? I can't think of a person that I would find more annoying, and that's saying something, because I tend to find people in general pretty damn annoying. I think Mai is about the only person I can have a conversation with without wanting to stick my fingers in my brain.

"It's not a _fucking _anything," he informs me loftily, "it's about breathing and concentrating on reaching enlightenment."

"Well, I don't really have much interest in reaching enlightenment right now," I snap impatiently, "maybe you could just hand me the clothes and then I can get out of here." Because I honestly think I might start screaming if I'm forced to stay in a room with this peculiar little man for even a moment longer. I can't bear to hear the drivel that is spilling from his mouth – and I can't help but wonder if he can actually hear what he's saying. The Capitol accent makes it a damn sight worse.

Then old toady pipes up from the corner, "you know, you could be a little more grateful."

I wonder what she thinks I actually have in my life that I might possibly feel grateful about, because I'm struggling to find the silver lining in this dark cloud that's pretty much stretched over my entire life. Of course, in her eyes I am in a position to be envied – I am going into the Hunger Games to battle for glory, and honour. Well, she can feel free to take my position if she wants; I'm just very selfless like that.

"Sorry," I mutter between gritted teeth as I imagine what Cordula will say when I tell her about how I have spoken to these people. I only do it because I know it might help my cause – I have no real interest in appeasing these people in order to make them feel better.

"You must be feeling very excited," Tifara says, stepping forward with a broad smile on her face, clearly convinced that my meagre apology means that I plan to change my attitude, "I would be acting the same way if it was me headed into the Games. Of course you're to make a good impression during the chariot rides. I bet you can hardly concentrate on anything else."

Spot on_, _I'm just so _excited_ to be heading into this bloodbath – best moment of my life. I have to work hard to suppress an eye-roll as she pats me on the head and flashes me a patronising smile. Yeah, forget suppressing an eye-roll, I try to fight down the urge to snap her fingers to stop her from doing that ever again. I hate the way these people think that they can just touch me so casually like that – I prefer to reserve contact for the people who I actually care about, which doesn't amount to a very long list.

I sigh as Zen produces my outfit from a railing and I prepare for a further loss of my dignity as they tug my robe undone once more.

* * *

Finally, once I have been dressed in a floaty blue dress created from different shades and textures of material, supposedly to resemble waves, my arms have been inked with pictures of colourful little fish and they have smeared blue glitter over any part of my skin that the dress doesn't cover, they lead me down to the Chariot. While they worked on me, it was easy to forget about the huge crowd that will wait for me down there – but now, the terror comes flooding back into my limbs, and I know that I'll have to make an effort in order to make a good impression. Because things like that don't come naturally to me.

But then I have to worry about Stelson as well – because I don't want him to go into this thing without a chance in hell, but then again – we're supposed to be opponents now and I need to make sure he's aware that he can't rely on me in the arena. Still, I feel cold even thinking about that; try as I might, I never had the heart to push him completely away from me.

I spot our chariot – decorated with streaming blue silk and glittery pictures of various fish, none of which I recognise, which leads me to believe that they were probably created out of someone's imagination, rather than that someone actually bothered to make the effort to find out some information about the actual species of fish who swim in the waters around our district.

Zen pushes me towards it and winds his way effortlessly through the crowds of other tributes and their stylists. I notice that most of the tributes are standing quietly, almost as though they're trying to blend into the background, or pretend that this isn't really happening to them, and all of the noise is being created by the various stylists, most of whom are having loud, highly opinionated conversations about things that, in my mind at least, don't really seem to matter. It's all body paint this, and hair products that, and once again I ask myself how they can talk about such trivial things in front of people who have effectively just been sentenced to death.

We reach the chariot, and just as I'm scanning around looking out for Stelson I start slightly as a hand prods against my back. I spin around and find myself staring at Miss-Perfect from District One. She's wearing a glittery silver dress that hugs her figure and accentuates, well, everything. She watches me with a pair of piercing blue eyes for a moment and then she smiles widely – I glance at her for a moment, convinced that she must be faking it, but I can see no trace of a lie within her eyes.

"I just needed a break from him for a moment," she says, by way of explanation, gesturing back at the boy from her district, who is already sitting in their chariot, his arms folded tightly over his chest and his brow lowered in a surly fashion.

"Yeah, he looks like a bundle of laughter," I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away from his heavily muscled arms and imagining how easily he could strangle me.

"I'm Emelda," she says, holding out a hand confidently towards me. That's the second time since I was reaped that I've had to shake someone's hand – something that I've never really had to do ever before in my life.

"Nerine," I reply, "but you might as well call me Neri, everyone else does." I'm not quite sure why I added that last part, but there's something about this girl that makes me think that, in any other situation, I might have let myself become friends with her. Because she isn't pretending to be anyone other than who she is – well, from what I can tell about her in these few moments. But then again, I saw her volunteer at her reaping, and I'm fully aware that she's just as dangerous as her male counterpart, even if she might not seem like it at first glance, and I remind myself not to get lulled into a false sense of security by her seemingly easy-going attitude.

"Well, hello then Neri," she says, "I'm assuming that you're going to join the alliance?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I reply, slightly distractedly because Stelson has just arrived at our chariot, wearing a pale blue suit, a face covered in glitter just like mine and an expression of fear plastered onto his features. I don't miss the look that Emelda gives him – as though she thinks he's going to be easy prey for her – and I almost want to wrap my arms around his shoulders. The relaxed atmosphere between us from just a moment ago evaporates instantly, as I see a true example of her personality and I turn away from her, looking at Stelson instead, annoyed at myself for so easily wanting to trust her. This girl who I know absolutely nothing about.

"How're you feeling?" I ask him slightly awkwardly, seeing as we haven't really spoken except to argue ever since we got on the train yesterday.

For a moment I think he's going to ignore me completely, but then he shrugs and mutters, "it's a pretty big crowd."

I sigh in annoyance – I wish he wouldn't say things like that in front of Emelda, because it's only going to confirm her initial view that he'll be an easy kill. I don't want him to seem weak in front of her, but then I realise that I probably shouldn't let myself care, not now I should be fighting against him for my own life, and I turn back to Emelda who still stands behind me., trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that washes over me as I do so.

"Have you spoken to District 2?" I ask her, unable to see them anywhere near us.

"I spoke to the boy," there's a faint hint of nervousness in her features as she tells me this, and I can't help the fact that my heart sinks slightly. District 2 are traditionally the most ferocious competitors – it's common knowledge throughout District 4 that they take their training a lot more seriously than we do. "He seemed pretty arrogant, but I had a fairly decent conversation with him." Oh fantastic, so this means I've got a strong, and probably intelligent tribute from District 2 to deal with. Not to mention Emelda, who clearly won't go down without a fight, and then two others, who I've yet to encounter, but will probably be in the same league.

I brush these thoughts off determinedly, "so, who do you reckon is the prime candidate for the leader?" I ask, wanting to keep the conversation with her going rather than actually having to face my own thoughts.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replies with an uninterested shrug, "I'm sure there'll be plenty of competition for it in training tomorrow." The gong goes off, and my chest tightens as I realise that this is the symbol for the chariot rides to begin. Emelda disappears, flashing me a jaunty little wave as she goes and I clamber onto the chariot, feeling desperately ungainly in my heels as I do so. I hope that the Capitol citizens didn't see me stumbling around, because for them, a pair of high heels is probably like their second feet.

"Neri?" Stelson's voice comes from my side and I turn to see him watching me, eyes wide with terror and his hands visibly shaking. I'm no good with this – I don't know how to comfort a scared little boy who shouldn't even be here. How am I supposed to fight for my death, when it would mean someone as innocent as Stelson having to die?

I reach out a hand and squeeze his shoulder, looking him firmly the eyes, "You have to act brave, Stels," I tell him urgently, knowing that he can't act scared in front of this audience, or especially the other careers who have clearly already singled him out as a target.

"I can't," he whispers, chewing on his lips, "I'm not like you Neri."

What he says is almost laughable, "you think _I'm _brave, Stelson? I'm the biggest wimp there is. So, if I can do it, then you can certainly do it. Just... just wave when I wave, ok? And don't think about the people watching." I watch him as he nods determinedly, and his back straightens up to show me that he plans to do exactly as I say.

As the chariot starts trundling forwards and I raise my hand almost mechanically towards the shrieking mass of the audience, I can't help think of what Stelson had said to me – about me being brave. Because I'm not – I think of how I push people away because I'm not brave enough to let them close to me and risk getting hurt. Because it's just so much damn easier to hide myself away.

* * *

If you're reading, then I'd love to know what you think so far; reviews are always appreciated :D


	6. Knots

_Knots_

_

* * *

_

I wake up the next morning with a groan, confused for a moment about where I am, and wondering why the sheets beneath my body aren't coarse and scratchy like the one's I'm used to back at the Home. Someone is banging loudly on my door and I press my ears to my hands for a brief second as I reflect on the fact that the screeching is in tones too high to belong to Matron.

"Nerine, training starts in less than an hour, and you still need to eat breakfast."

Training? My mind struggles for a moment to comprehend what's going on, but as I force myself to glance around the room everything comes back to me in a sudden rush of emotion, and I want nothing more than to just lie back down, pull the covers over my head and pretend as though none of this is happening. Unfortunately though, the thudding against my door continues and I realise that this isn't something that I can just crawl away and hide from. Whether I go to training or not, they're still going to chuck me into that arena, so I might as well at least go and prepare myself for it.

With these thoughts in mind, I push myself upright and call out, "I'm just coming!" and proceed to rifle through the wardrobe to find something that I can easily throw on. It's a shame that I don't have time to use the shower again; I had tried it yesterday, and it had taken me almost an hour to find a button to spray myself with something resembling just normal, clear water. However, I had had quite a lot of fun pressing the array of buttons and submersing myself in different colours and scents. Not that I'd admit that to anyone else though – that I actually enjoyed something that the Capitol has to offer.

I snatch a dark blue t-shirt from a hanger and grab a pair of black leggings from one of the drawers that I had thrown open yesterday in my search for something to wear to bed. I throw them on quickly, shove my feet into a pair of leather boots, and sweep my hair back into a ponytail before darting out of the room.

I enter the dining room to find the others already gathered around the table and I try to avoid looking at Caspian as I examine the buffet with disinterest; I don't think serving us fancy food makes up for the fact that we have to go into the Hunger Games. You know, it might sound strange, but _somehow_ I would rather have the familiar brown mush of the Community Home, and not be risking my life.

I reach out and pour myself a cup of orange juice – I had tried it on the train, and never had anything with so much flavour in it before. So, I might complain about the food and try and act as though I have principles, but I'm not really planning on turning a feast like this down. It doesn't mean that I've changed my mind about the Capitol, it just means that I'm hungry.

As I fill up my plate, I keep my back to the others at the table, and dread the moment when I'll actually have to sit down and be expected to join in with their conversation. It's Caspian's fault, really – he had tried to compliment me yesterday after the opening ceremony yesterday, and I don't react very well to compliments, particularly not from someone who is, essentially, a perfect stranger. I know it was just a perfunctory comment about my dress, but still, I hadn't appreciated it. And then for some reason I had found myself flushing, which had just made me even angrier, and I certainly don't think I'll be able to look him in the eye after the things I had said.

I take seat with a sigh and glance up awkwardly to find Caspian watching me with a slight smile on his face. I take a few mouthfuls, but his eyes don't move from my face so eventually I find myself raising my head, and snapping in annoyance, "what?" I demand after swallowing a piece of toast.

He shakes his head, "I just wanted to reassure you that I won't be paying you anymore compliments," he says, the smile still playing on his mouth, and I bite down on my lip tightly to keep myself from reacting to his words. "I've learned my lesson."

"What did you do?" Stelson suddenly bursts out loudly, leaning towards us with an interested expression on his face and his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Stelson," I mutter warningly, using the voice that normally scares him away, but this time has no affect on him.

"Because Neri really doesn't appreciate it when people say nice things about her. Once I told her that her hair looked nice, and she whacked me in the face."

"Only because I had already asked you about five times to leave me alone," I mutter under my breath, trying not to rise to it, but already feeling my temper nearing the surface. I don't understand why they have to mock the fact that I don't like compliments – it just makes me feel uncomfortable, and I absolutely despise feeling like that. In my eyes, needing to rely on other people to tell you that you look nice is a sign of weakness, and weakness is something that I cannot afford to feel, particularly not now. That's something that it would do Stelson some good to learn.

"Really?" Caspian asks, his voice filled with amusement.

"Yep, and there was one time when-" I whip my head up and shoot a glare at Stelson over the table, and Cordula wisely chooses that moment to intervene and bring Stelson back to reality.

"Anyway, you both know the plan for today's session?" she asks, fixing us both with her grey eyes in turn and we both immediately decide to focus our attention back on breakfast.

"Yes, we know," I say shortly, not wanting to talk about this anymore. What we have to do is common sense anyway – integrate ourselves into the traditional alliance and try to learn as much about the other four tributes as we can. As well as keeping an eye open on anyone from a poorer district who might have unexpected talents.

"Nerine?" my thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Cookie, who tosses her blue hair and fixes me with an annoyed look. _What have I done now?_

"Yes?" I mutter in reply, preparing myself for another one of her lectures.

"Are you going to do something with your hair before you go down?" She asks, curling her lip slightly as she takes in my appearance and anger flames within me.

I raise my eyebrows and trying, trying to adopt a mockingly polite tone ask, "What's wrong with my hair?"

"You'll only have to look in a mirror to work that one out," she tells me, almost viciously, and I look over at her incredulously.

"Excuse me?" I demand, ignoring the warning glance that Cordula shoots me and deciding to unleash my anger onto Cookie, my pride still bridling at her insults. "I'm sorry that we aren't all as _cultured _as you – you see, I'm just incapable of doing-"

"That's enough, Nerine," Cordula starts talking over me, her voice cutting smoothly over my rant and leaving me just as annoyed with her as I feel with Cookie.

"I always expect far more sophisticated tributes from District 4," Cookie says with a long suffering sigh, "but I'm just as disappointed now as I was last year. Perhaps my promotion wasn't a positive thing after all." With this she sweeps from the room with a derisive sniff in my direction and Stelson releases a weak chuckle. I open my mouth, wanting to yell something after her to make her feel bad for what she had said, but Cordula flashes me that look again and I clamp my lips together. It's not like she would care anyway.

"I can see I've got my hands full with you," she says and rises from her chair, following Cookie out of the door.

I bite my lip, but don't allow myself to feel guilty about what just happened. It's not in my nature to just sit there and take insults from people who don't even know what they're talking about. It's an attitude that always used to get me into trouble at school, before I learned that flying off your handle at the smallest thing that someone says rarely achieves anything, and just makes you look stupid and increases people's perceptions that you're just a little orphan girl who isn't worth a damn.

I'm actually quite annoyed that she had managed to produce such a reaction from me when I shouldn't care less about anything that she says or does.

"You don't like compliments, but you don't like insults either. So, what do you like Neri?" Caspian asks, the teasing light returned once more to his eyes.

"I like nothings, "I retort impatiently, trying to shovel the last mouthfuls of my breakfast into my mouth as I speak, "just don't make any comment about my appearance at all."

He shrugs, "sure," and just like that the strange sadness has returned to his eyes and his whole body seems to sag slightly. I sigh slightly at the recognition that this is what winning the Hunger Games does to people. It doesn't make my future look very bright – I can either be brutally murdered by some sadistic teenager or turn into a shell of the person that I am now. That's just fucking fantastic.

"I suppose I should go sort out my hair, or Cookie might throw something at me," I mutter, and I pick up my glass and drain the rest of my juice before leaving the room without allowing myself to look at Caspian once.

After I've fixed my hair, and Cordula has forced me to apologise to Cookie (though my hand itches to hit when I don't receive one in response) she leads Stelson and I over to the lift. According to Cordula and Caspian, it's tradition for tributes planning to enter the Alliance to go down to training earlier. Something about a display of dominance in front of the other tributes, but I'm worried about Stelson – dominating is certainly not a word that springs to mind when I think of him.

The lift surges downwards, and the doors slide open before I've even had a chance to prepare myself for meeting the other tributes, and the ones who will essentially be my biggest competition once we get into the arena.

I take in the sight of the training hall as I step out of the life, closely followed by Stelson. It's a massive place with a sweeping wooden floors and a ceiling that looks high enough to be sky. Our footsteps echo weirdly across the room as Stelson and I make our way to the centre of the room, where two other tributes already stand, surrounded by a mass of various stands offering to teach us different skills.

As we near the other two tributes, I stiffen slightly as I realise that they are the pair from District 2 and are eyeing us with hostility. I half want to ignore them, and refuse to join the Alliance if they're going to be part of it, because they are huge, and hulking, and completely terrifying. But I'm aware that I won't last very long if they see me as their enemy right from the very start.

I nod in their direction as I finally come to a stop, and a Capitol attendant brandishes a piece of cloth adorned with the number four, and proceeds to pin it onto the back of my t-shirt. Another one pins a number onto Stelson as well, and I shift awkwardly as silence falls on the training hall I try not to squirm under the glares from District 2.

The girl is massively tall and wearing a top that it's clear she knows will show off the vast bulky muscles on her arms. She watches me with a pair of dark eyes that I can barely make out beneath her dark fringe, and even as I watch her she folds her arms tightly across her chest, making her muscles stand out even more underneath her pale skin. I resist the urge to look down at my own arms, and compare the size of them with hers. I have the feeling it might get me down somewhat. What really bothers me though, is the way that she stands – poised on her tiptoes with a readiness that makes me feel edgy around her. As though she's constantly waiting to attack someone. And right now I would be in her direct line should she choose to fight someone.

If it's possible, the boy is even more intimidating than the girl. He's the kind of guy that Mai would have been obsessed with had we encountered him back home – he's handsome in the traditional sense of the word, with a strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones, and even though I try to suppress the feeling, I can't help but compare him to Caspian. I shake my head and force myself to sum him up just as I had done the girl – he has broad shoulders and a wide stance that makes him seem even bigger than he really is. He's obviously been trained well in how to scare the other tributes; it seems as though he knows exactly what he's doing. He pushes a strand of blond hair out of his face and takes a smooth step towards me.

"Lucius," he says evenly and there's a moment when I almost expect him to hold out his hand for me to shake like everyone else that I have met recently.

"Nerine," I say in response, proud of myself for managing to keep the tremble out of my tone.

Lucius turns expectantly towards Stelson, and I see that same derisive look on his face that Emelda had sent in his direction yesterday. "Stelson," he manages to say, and I almost sigh in relief with the fact that his voice doesn't squeak in terror, or anything else stupid like that.

I glance back over at the girl who shakes her head slightly, and smiles slightly viciously in our direction. "Cassia," she says loudly, her voice ringing out through the hall and I nod in response to her. "Are you in or out?" she suddenly demands, and I feel slightly taken aback at the question – the way Cordula had spoken about the alliance, it sounded as though it normally wasn't decided officially until the last day of training, in order to give the tributes the chance to weigh up their options. But this strategy is far more efficient, because I get the feeling that if I say I'm in now, and then change my mind before we enter the arena, I'll be one of the first tributes on their kill list. They've got us backed into a corner, and I know that we only really have on choice.

"We're in," I say, glancing at Stelson sharply as I speak in the hope that he won't come out with something daft.

"Good," Lucius says and we lapse once more back into silence until District 1 appears in the lift about five minutes later.

Emelda immediately bounds over to us, leaving her partner to glare sulkily at the four of us and begin stomping his way across the room behind her.

"It's good to see you again, Neri," she nods in my direction with a wide smile as one of the attendants pins the number onto her, and I have to press my lips together tightly to stop myself from returning it, "Lucius. Oh, and Stelson." I narrow my eyes at the fact that she tacked him on at the end, as though he was an afterthought, and somehow doesn't matter as much as the rest of us. There's something about this girl that I like – but I hate her attitude towards Stelson. But then I suppose it's no different to the way in which I have always treated him. I sigh, and squeeze his shoulder briefly when Emelda turns away to introduce herself to Cassia and so no one is watching.

The boy from One reaches the group and shoves his hands straight into his pockets without making eye contact with any of us while a number is pinned onto his back. He's just as tall as Cassia, and lean - but I can tell that he's had training from the way he flexes his muscles slightly as he stands. "This is Tamir," Emelda says, spinning back around so that we all stand in a circle, facing each other. It makes me feel extremely exposed and I can tell from the way that Stelson is shifting his weight uncomfortably that he feels the exact same way as I do.

We all say our names once more, and Tamir merely grunts in response to each one. "I'm assuming that everyone is in the alliance?" Lucius demands as silence falls upon us.

"That's why we're here early, isn't it?" I question in response, trying hard to keep the sarcasm out of my tone, but not quite sure if I've succeeded as his eyes narrow slightly in response to my words.

"We need to know where we stand," he points out, clearly determined to take control of the situation.

Everyone nods, and I just find myself shrugging my shoulders; I've already agreed to enter the Alliance so I don't particularly see the point in confirming it again. "Good," Emelda says brightly, "we've gotten that out of the way. So, how old is everyone?"

The conversation remains awkward and overly structured as we each take turns in declaring our age round the circle. Emelda is 17, like me, which she declares is the perfect age to enter the Hunger Games. I choose not to question her about why this is – because I know that she has no real reason – but I return her high-five, albeit half-heartedly, when I tell her that I am the same age. Cassia is 15, despite the fact that she easily looks much older, while Lucius reveals that he is also 17, which also earns him a high-five from Emelda. Finally, Tamir, in the first time that I ever heard him speak, says that he is 18 – _no surprise there then. _And I sigh at the fact that Stelson is the youngest – yet another reason to single him out as a victim in their eyes.

As the conversation lulls, Cassia turns towards me, "your mother is Marina Leith, isn't she? Victor of the 53rd Games?"

I grimace slightly as she asks me this – I know it sounds stupid, but I had hoped that no one would actually bring it up. Talking about my mother brings back all kinds of emotions that I've been trying to suppress ever since I was eleven years old, and made the decision not to go to her funeral, and try to push all memories of her from my mind. Although her name doesn't instantly evoke hatred anymore, as it had always done in the past, it still isn't a particularly pleasant topic for me. I realise that I can't let them become aware of how much the subject of my mother bothers me, because they'll all instantly remember it as one of my weaknesses, and use it against me later. I know how this alliance works – we all pretend to be friendly to one another when it suits us, and we learn information about the other tributes while we are still allied, and then once we split up we use the things that we have learned against each other. It's the way it always is with these alliances – underneath the pretence, everyone understands the truth; you're in the Hunger Games by yourself, no matter how big an alliance you may be involved in.

"Yeah, she is. Or was," I'm never sure how to respond to a question like that.

"She probably met my mother when she was alive." I look at her blankly for a moment, assuming there must be some meaning towards her words, but unable to work it out with my mind working at double time to suppress memories of my mother from my mind.

"Oh?" I hear myself ask.

"I'm Enobaria's daughter. Well, adopted daughter, but it's the same difference," she says with a smug expression on her face, and any trace of hope that I had managed to contain evaporates from within me as I realise that whatever advantage I may have had because of who my mother is will be hugely overshadowed by Cassia. Not only is her mother a victor, but she's a living victor, and an absolutely terrifying one at that. I can only hope that Cassia isn't planning on killing like her mother, because I don't really fancy her biting my throat out. I manage to suppress a shudder, but am completely clueless about what to say in response. She obviously expects awe, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing the impact that her revelation has made on me.

"Really?" Emelda asks, sounding less than impressed, "how come you volunteered this year? Surely you're a bit too young to be certain that you'll be able to follow in your mother's footsteps."

Cassia turns blazing eyes on Emelda and hisses, "15 was the age my mother was when she won her Games. So this is exactly how I'll follow in her footsteps."

"It's not even like she's your real mother," Tamir mutters as other tributes begin to sidle into the room, casting us anxious glances as they see us standing together and it's clear that we've formed an alliance.

"Excuse me?" Cassia demands, "just because you're jealous that-"

"Ok Cass," Lucius says, giving her a good natured shove, "don't get her started on Enobaria unless you want to get a headache," he advises Tamir and I find myself laughing slightly at his words. He's not at all how I imagined a tribute from District 2 would be – sullen, and only interested in killing. But he seems surprisingly laid back, although, just as with Emelda last night, I warn myself not to get lulled into a false sense of security, and force myself to stop trying to see everyone's good traits.

Atala gives us our instructions – we have two and half days in which to train and then, on the afternoon of the third day, we'll have a private session with the Gamemakers when they will give us a score out of 12 based on our performance in that short window. Training will finish at 5 o'clock everyday and no one is permitted to train after this. Though I don't doubt that, at least in the case of Cassia and Lucius, some tributes will break this rule.

I feel slightly edgy as we begin spreading out in the hall, other tributes selecting various stations and approaching them with fearful expressions on their faces. It's open knowledge that all six of us will have been trained, but today will be a test to see just how well my competitors have been taught. Tamir and Cassia are the ones that I am particularly planning to keep an eye on.

* * *

I launch another spear at the target and it sticks precariously into the shoulder of the dummy. It's better than I was able to manage just an hour ago, but it's still awful in comparison to Lucius' aim. He pulls his arm back, and lobs his spear at the target next to mine. He gets a direct hit to the heart and I see him smirk slightly as he spots me watching him.

"You'll need to work on your aim," he laughs and starts to walk away, "I think I'll donate my place to someone who actually needs the practice."

I roll my eyes as he lumbers over to the weights station, where Tamir is furiously bench pressing – I don't even want to imagine how much weight he is managing to lift, with apparent ease as well. Mine and Stelson's mediocre training can't match up to the other four, and I can tell Stelson is just aware of it as I am; he spent the first hour trying to throw knives at a target, but he only managed to hit it every fourth or fifth time, and I could see the scathing looks from Cassia who was sharing the stand with us. I had almost been relieved when he had decided to give up and spend his time at the survival stands instead. But I'm worried about the fact that he isn't doing any weapons training at all, because it's going to put him into a weaker position once we get into the area. Perhaps I'll speak to him about it later.

_No Neri, _I remind myself, _he isn't your problem anymore – he has to learn to help himself now that we're going into the arena._

I've told myself this on a pretty much tri-daily basis ever since we reached the Capitol, but I still can't make myself believe it.

I'm just reaching over to take another spear when I sense someone behind me and I spin around to find Emelda standing there. "Come to the knot tying station with me?" she asks, her eyes darting around her almost guiltily and I wonder what she's up to.

"As useful as the ability to tie knots might prove in the arena, I think I'll carry on with the spears," I say dryly, already starting to turn back away from her, but she reaches out and grabs my arm in a claw like grasp.

"I have no interest in tying knots either," she says dismissively, "but it's not exactly a very popular station, so we can talk without anyone hearing us." I raise my eyebrows at her, wondering what she might possibly want to talk to me in private about. But my curiosity is peaked, and so I follow her over to the abandoned knot tying station. The attendant sitting there with his chin slumped against his palms brightens up considerably once he notices us making a beeline for his stand.

But Emelda just tosses her hair in his direction, and grabs one of the instruction cards instead and a couple of ropes left lying around for us to practice on. We sit down on the floor a little way away from the attendant and I fiddle absently with my length of rope, while Emelda tries, and fails, to look like she's absorbed in trying to work out the structure of the knot shown on the card.

"So, what do you think of the others?" she asks softly after several minutes of silence have passed by. _Was this all she wanted to talk to me about? _It hardly seems worth all the secrecy really – I would rather have stayed at the spear station than make inane conversation about the fellow members of our alliance.

"They seem fine," I say with a shrug, having no idea where she could possibly be going with his.

"Lucius is clearly the leader, don't you think?" She asks, leaning in closer and making me feel slightly uncomfortable.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and answer, "I guess – he's alright though. Not as arrogant as I thought he'd be." That's the stereotypical image of District 2 guys that we have back home – not that it stops Mai fawning over each and every one of them in the Games.

"No, I think Cassia has arrogance enough for the both of them," Emelda answers bitterly, drawing a slight laugh from me as I look around for her now – and find her tapping her foot impatiently as Lucius says something to her; whatever it is, she clearly isn't happy about it. "All that stuff about Enobaria being her adoptive mother, as if we would actually care."

It's strange, but when Cassia had spoken before about Enobaria having adopted her, I didn't really put two and two together – but now I realise that she must be an orphan just like Stelson and me. She hadn't exactly seemed like the classic Community Home child, so it hadn't even really crossed my mind that she might have been in once herself. Perhaps she hadn't spend much time there before Enobaria had adopted her. I remember how we had always used to fantasise about some kindly adult arriving and whisking us away from the Home, but it never happened – at least, not unless you were one of the cute little kids with chubby cheeks who still had a fairly positive outlook on life.

"Neri, can we make a pact?" Emelda suddenly asks, raising her eyes from the card and glancing at me with a serious expression on her face.

"A pact about what?" I demand, confused about why she might possibly want to make a pact with _me, _and what kind of pact does she mean?

She lowers her voice, leaning in closer towards me and whispers, "Once the alliance officially splits, we join back up again, to take the others down."

I look at her incredulously; that seems like a pretty bad move if you ask me, and what could she possibly gain from it? I watch her for a moment, narrowing my eyes in suspicion before asking, "Why? What would be the point?"

"We're the weakest ones. They'll each be trying to take us down first; I just thought we'd have a better chance if we teamed up to get them before they get us."

I sigh in frustration – technically, Stelson is the weakest member of our alliance, so surely she should be asking him as well. If he doesn't even count as a blip on the radar of Emelda, who considers herself one of the weakest, then what must he be towards the other members of the alliance? Less than nothing, clearly.

I make a snap decision, assuming that I'll probably regret it later, "Fine, I'm in," Emelda's face brightens at my words and she starts to speak, but I quickly cut her off by raising a finger, "_if _we include Stelson as well." There's no way in hell that I could just abandon him to the mercy of the other tributes – that is, if he actually would let me get away from him anyway, which I know he probably won't.

Her face darkens, "Neri," she whines, "I don't want him."

"Well, I do," I answer, "if he isn't part of it, then neither am I." I watch as her resolve begins to waver, and she lets out a loud sigh. I smile in triumph, knowing that I've won.

"Fine," she huffs, "but we don't tell him about it."

"Why not?"

"Because, the more people who are in on it, the more suspicious we'll appear. Anyway, it's not like he's actually going to last long enough for this to be an issue."

I bow my head at her words, concentrating my attention on the diagram of the knot while Emelda pats me on the shoulder and leaves the station. I wonder if any part of that conversation had actually been a good idea, and whether Emelda is someone that I could actually trust in that arena. I don't like her attitude about Stelson – the way she dismissed him so readily, without seeming remotely remorseful at the idea that he might not last very long. But then again, why should she be remorseful?

As my eyes follow the intricate patterns of the knot, I begin to realise that the Hunger Games is more complicated than I had ever imagined. It isn't just a game of survival of the fittest, but it has its own complex political structure with secrets and schemes that can drastically alter the face of the Games. And how I am supposed to cope, when everyone seems much better versed with this fact that I am?

* * *

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far - it's good to know people are actually enjoying my story. :) And I always love getting reviews *hint*

Oh, and I apologise for the length of this chapter, I got a bit carried away!


	7. Night

_Night_

* * *

That night at dinner I can't concentrate; my mind keeps obsessing over the training and I'm wondering if I tried the right stations, if I gave a good enough impression of myself to the other tributes and whether or not I should have entered into that pact with Emelda.

Although Cordula and Caspian have quizzed Stelson and me on pretty much every single aspect of today, I haven't mentioned the agreement that I had made with her. Doubtless they would consider it to have been a bad idea, and besides, I can't reveal it to them without letting Stelson know as well, and I can't do that without breaking my promise to Emelda. Not that I should really care about doing this, but I don't like liars and traitors, and I'm determined not to be one myself.

I jab my fork disinterestedly at the vegetable stew that sits steaming on my plate. There some vegetables I recognise easily – potatoes, which were pretty much the staple food in the Community Home, and turnips. But there are other more exotic looking vegetables on my plate as well – yellows, greens and oranges that I've never seen before in my life. Even when my mum had been alive, and we'd had the money to spend on food, most of it had gone on her morphling. Besides, it's not as though we had ever really cook anything anyway. The only time I had ever gotten a decent meal was when Mags had invited us over for dinner.

"Do you have anything else that might be useful?" Cordula asks as the silence at the table stretches out to an almost unbearable point.

I just shrug in response to her question, and force myself to take a bite of the stew. I suppose the taste should excite me – I've certainly never tried anything like it before; it has so much _flavour _compared to the food that I've had in the past. And it's not just stodgy mush like back at the Home, but I can't really bring myself to care. It's just hard work having had to spend the day pretending that I've been well trained and that my mother taught me all her 'victor's secrets' just as Cassia had said that Enobaria had done. I had been trying to cling onto anything that might give me an advantage, but all I'd really wanted to do was scream at her every time she had given Stelson that look that said that she was planning on killing him. I don't know if I'll be strong enough to do anything to protect him.

"Nerine!" I jerk my head upwards to find her watching me with an impatient expression.

"What?" I snap impatiently; I feel shattered, but based on the past few nights, I doubt I'll be able to get to sleep when I am finally allowed to leave the table and this pointless conversation to go to bed.

"There's not much we can do to help you if you won't tell us anything _helpful_."

"I've told you everything I saw," I grumble under my breath, my voice rising slightly as I detail the list that we have already given them. "Tamir's miserable, and most probably extremely dangerous. Spent most of his time lifting weights and glaring at people. Emelda's a spoilt brat, but she's clever and knows what she's doing. She won't tell anyone why she volunteered. Lucius is blatantly the leader, and Cassia's a bitch," I finish with a glare. "That good enough?"

"We need their strengths, and their weaknesses," Caspian points out, trying to diffuse the growing tension in the room by adopting a mild tone, "not just the fact that you don't like any of them."

"Who said I didn't like any of them?" I retort, ducking my head and staring back down at my plate to avoid having to meet his eyes. I still feel uncomfortable around him after this morning, and his calm attitude just grates on my nerves. Particularly now when I'm feeling more on edge than I ever have before in my life.

"_Cassia's a bitch,_" he repeats back to me and I narrow my eyes in frustration, but choose to ignore him. I know that I'm not doing myself any favours when I lose my temper and shout at everyone around me. "So, Cassia's strengths? And her weaknesses as well."

I glance sideways as Stelson who is on his third plate of food. It will probably to him good to bulk up somewhat before we get into the arena, but I don't like the fact that he has continually had his mouth stuffed full of food ever since we sat down to eat, leaving it up to me to describe our day's training.

I huff out a sigh, and mutter in a deadpan tone, "she's good at throwing knives, wrestling, swordplay. She bashed a dummy in half with a mace, beat one of the attendants in about five seconds flat with an axe. Oh, and I think I saw her-"

"Ok, Nerine," Cordula cuts me off with an impatient tone, "that's enough."

"You asked for her strengths," I snap in response.

"Yes, but what would you say that her go-to weapon is? Is she physically strong enough to take all her tributes down in hand-to-hand combat? Or will she rely in her skill in throwing knives?"Cordula demands so many questions of me that my head begins to ache, and I wish more than anything that I could just excuse myself from the table and go and lie down in the peace and quiet of my room.

"I don't know," I mutter, pressing my index fingers against my temples as if somehow that might alleviate my headache. I can't keep talking on and on about the other tributes like this – I'm fed up of being forced to evaluate their strengths and their flaws. Besides, every question she asks me just makes it clear how little I have done what she asked me to do. If you start examining the other tributes then they become more like real people, and I can't afford to see them like that once we get into the arena.

"But you _should_ know," Cordula yells, slamming the flat of her palm down onto the table – her eyes flaming with anger, and I recoil from her as I take in her furious expression. In this moment she could almost be Mr Grausam, back at the Community Home, his whole body tensed with fury as he hefted the whip above his head. His mouth shrieking obscenities as he tried to get me to understand what I had done wrong. Just as all those times with him, I can't understand what I have done to make Cordula so angry. I didn't pay attention as she had asked me; but surely I am the only person that would have an impact upon?

"Cordula," Caspian mutters from the other side of the table, once again trying to diffuse the angry tension around the table. I glare furiously at him – I'm so sick of people thinking that I'm incapable of standing up for myself. That I'm just some pathetic little orphan girl who understands nothing of the world. And so my anger boils over as I spot the sympathetic expression on his face, and I fling those words at him.

"You _don't _understand anything of the world," Cordula spits at me before rising to her feet and knocking the chair over; it falls to the ground with a heavy thud as she storms out of the room and Cookie glances between us, an expression of disgust on her face.

"You're all such barbarians," she murmurs, before picking up her spoon and digging into her dessert. I clench my jaw, wanting nothing more than to shriek furious words at her and wipe that stupidly passive expression off her face.

Stelson is watching me with his mouth hanging open, "Neri," he murmurs, and I turn my glare round on him as I recognise his familiar placating tone. I don't _want _to be calmed down – I just want to fume and rant about how I have no damn control over my own life. I push my own chair backwards, feeling a strangely vindictive pleasure at the way the metal legs scrape loudly against the floor, and stalk out of the room.

Once I'm out in the corridor though, I feel like such an idiot. Mai always tells me that I need to get a better handle on my temper, and not let my emotions get so out of control, and I know that I shouldn't have gotten so worked up about something so insignificant. But, chances are, these could easily be my last few days of life, so surely I'm allowed to lose my temper?

I walk back to my room and try to pull it open – it doesn't budge, so I try pushing it instead. Nothing happens, and I eye the stupid thing in frustration, grabbing the handle and yanking it impatiently, pushing and pulling it in my attempt to force it open. I just want to get into my room and spend the rest of the evening hiding from everyone else after the spectacle I just made of myself, but now I can't even do that.

I shove my shoulders against it, but it still doesn't give way. "What's wrong with you?" I hiss, my frustration peaking and causing my voice to wobble in anger as I glare at it.

Someone clears their throat from behind me, and I whirl around, slamming an infuriated fist against the door as I do so. It's Caspian – I feel a flush rise in my cheeks, and hope fervently that he'll just think it's anger.

"You have to slide it open," he tells me, and I can still detect a faint hint of amusement in his tone. I clench my fist at the idea that he's mocking me. But then I sigh – after that display, I deserve to be mocked; acting like a moody little child doesn't exactly cause me to deserve any respect from him.

I place my hand against the handle, and tug at it again, this time trying to slide it along. It still doesn't move, "why can't they just have normal doors?" I snap, giving up and leaning my back against the wooden panels.

He laughs, "you know, sliding doors aren't actually that hard to open." He takes a step past me and gestures for me to move away from the door.

"They are when you're in a bad mood," I mutter under my breath and he grins in response. It takes him about three seconds to have the door opened, and he turns back to me with an annoyingly smug expression on his face. "Do you want a congratulations?" I demand viciously, annoyed that he can keep himself so well under control.

"You shouldn't talk to Cordula like that, she only wants to help you."

I just roll my eyes – I know all of this. She's my mentor, and so I'm supposed to listen to her, and not antagonise her to the point that she leaves the room in a rage. It's common sense really, but that's not something that I have particularly high levels of at the moment.

"I know," he says with a grin, "you already know that. But you seemed like you could use a reminder."

"Thanks," I reply sarcastically, "I really appreciate it. Now, goodnight." Chances are, I probably won't be able to sleep tonight, but I can at least try, and I don't want to talk to him anymore in case I say something that I'll regret.

"Night," he starts to turn away, but then he spins back around, his gaze holding mine for a moment, "and just a heads up – doors don't open if you talk to them." He turns away once more and disappears up the corridor, leaving me watching him with an incredulous expression on my face. For someone who was in this position himself only two years ago, he's annoyingly calm about everything. But then again, I suppose the only real example I've had of a victor was my mother, so perhaps I just imagined that everyone was affected in the same way as her. She was clearly just weak.

I sigh, and shake myself to clear my head, realising that I've been leaning against the wall, staring after Caspian. "Idiot," I tell myself firmly, forcing myself to walk into my room and drag the door shut. It's stupidly easy now that I've calmed down a bit and I groan at how pathetic I must have appeared to him.

Well, not that it matters anyway – I don't particularly care what he thinks of me.

Even as I think those words, I know that it's not strictly true, but I make myself focus on other things; on taking a shower and trying out more of the buttons, on changing into my pyjamas and lying stiffly on the bed, trying to make myself relax enough to fall asleep.

* * *

By about 1:00 am the next morning, it becomes annoyingly clear to me that I'm not going to be falling asleep anytime soon. Every time that I almost drifted off, I would remember something that would start me back awake again. Something I had seen during training, or the argument at dinner time. Everything from the last couple of days is playing out across the insides of my eyelids and nothing I do can cause me to relax.

I glare at the clock for a moment – hating those luminescent numbers for reminding me of what I already know; the less sleep I get now, the more exhausted I'm going to be once I get into the arena, and that's hardly going to do me any good.

As I roll over onto my back I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, and wonder if Stelson is feeling the same way – if he is also lying awake in a room that looks exactly the same as this, and obsessing over the Games just like me. In fact, I wonder if, on every level of this building, other tributes are lying awake, unable to drift off for fear of seeing things in nightmares that they would rather not even consider. Strange as it sounds, I like the idea that other people are feeling the same – it makes me feel less lonely.

After lying there for a few more moments, I decide that it's futile to just lie around here, because if I do then my thoughts are going to start going places that I have no interest in examining right now. I remember the television in the living room and wonder if anything will be on it at this late hour.

I assume so – the Capitol citizens seem to keep different hours than we do back in District 4. Every night so far I've heard music and laughter until early in the morning. I suppose that's what happens when you have nothing to get up for in the morning – you don't want to waste any time by sleeping.

I wonder if that's what is keeping me awake at the moment – the thought that my life is slipping away from me, and every tick of the clock brings me closer to the arena. Perhaps I can't go to sleep because my body doesn't want to waste those hours unconscious.

So, abandoning my attempts at sleeping I push myself upright, and cross the room to find the purple silk robe that I had dug out of one of the drawers after my shower last night. I drape it around me, and double knot the cord tightly around my waist, before sliding the door open. I roll my eyes once more at how easily I manage to do it, and promise myself that I will apologise to Caspian at breakfast. And make him promise that he won't tell anyone else about it. I suppose that I'll have to say sorry to Cordula as well, because something tells me that she is just as capable of bearing a grudge as I am.

As I wonder out into the hallway I realise that this is the first time since we arrived at the Capitol that everything around me has been completely silent.

I've always liked the night time – back at home, my favourite part of the day had been the evening. In the harbour there are several creaky old abandoned warehouses that the merchants dismiss as dangerous and so are universally avoided by everyone. Well, almost everyone, because in the evenings those warehouses come alive with music and dancing as people crowd into them.

Mai and me had first discovered about the _'vaults'_ a few years ago, when we had needed to get out of the Home, and escape from the squawking of little kids and the high pitched shrieking of Matron as she attempted to keep them under control. We had ended up wandering aimlessly around the harbour, talking about nothing in particular as the air grew increasingly cold and we knew that we would soon have to return. Just as I had been about to suggest that we turn back around, we had heard something in the distance. Being as bored as were, we had followed the source of the music and stumbled across a hive of activity in the place we only knew as being boarded up, and falling apart.

Of course we had stood in the queue with the rest of them, determined to find out what was going on within the walls of the building. It had held so much promise for us – a way to escape from the mundane schedule of our lives and offer us an adventure. But when we had reached the door, we had been turned away by a burly man who had pretty much just laughed in our faces before telling us we were too young, and sending us away.

Perhaps we should have just given up, but we were far too determined for that. We went back almost every single evening, sneaking out of the Home, and joining the queue, each day certain that it would be the one that we would finally be allowed in. But every night followed the same pattern – we were dismissed and turned away from the warehouse. And each night we built up new fantasies about what the inside might hold – of course, we could hear the music. It was loud and raucous inside, but I felt my feet tapping to the harsh beat, and I had wanted nothing more than to get inside and experience it for myself.

We were almost sixteen before the guard finally relented, and we were allowed in.

* * *

_I lean back against the side of the warehouse, feeling the music booming through the walls and shaking me right down to my bones. Mai grins at me, her face sparkling with anticipation, but I've stopped believing that they'll let us in. He said that we need to be eighteen before he'll allow us to cross the threshold, and I guess I would have given up trying by now if it wasn't for Mai, and the excitement in her tone whenever she speaks about what might be inside._

_To be honest, I think we've probably built the whole thing up to be much more than it really is, and anything in there will disappoint us now. But I still can't deny that there's that familiar flush of anticipation as we draw nearer to the front of the queue, that familiar feeling of hope._

_Finally we reach the front, and the guard eyes us with amusement, "not you girls again," he says with a grin, his eyes shining with laughter as he takes in the sight of Mai, who is practically bouncing up and down. I try to lean past him to see what's inside but, as always, all I can see is smoky darkness. I breathe it in; it's just as nice as the salty smell of the waves that envelopes me when I stand on the beach._

"_Evening Kenn," Mai says, adopting the same flirtatious tone she always does when she speaks to him. I feel slightly disgusted because he's so much older than we are, and he can barely even pass for attractive with his receding hairline and beaky nose._

"_When are you two going to give up?"_

"_Just let us in?" Mai wheedles, batting her eyelashes at him, "please?" I roll my eyes at her embarrassing display, I just hope he doesn't get the wrong idea about her. Everyone always says that Mai is 'easy' but I know that she never takes it further than a flirt, which can sometimes get her into trouble. _

"_Now, if I let you in this one time, do you promise that you'll stop bothering me?"_

"_Sure," I mutter, smirking up at him to let him know that would never happen – not in a million years. Unless, of course, it's rubbish in there._

_There's a moment where he hesitates rather than just turning us away with an impatient huff and I watch him cast a furtive glance around. "What the hell," I hear him mutter under his breath, and then he raises both his head and his tone, "you girls are from the Community Home – I guess you know how to look after yourselves."_

_Mai lets out a squeal of excitement, while I try to act slightly more dignified as he finally moves aside and we take our first steps inside._

_I cough slightly as the smoke fills my lungs and I feel slightly disorientated in this strange, smoky haze that surrounds us. But Mai grabs onto my arm and tugs me along the corridor while the pounding of the music grows louder and louder and fills my ears._

* * *

I smile to myself now as I remember that sense of awe that I had felt walking along that corridor with Mai. The inside of the 'vaults' had been grimy, and filled with sweating, dancing people but I had connected with it instantly. In District 4 those warehouses aren't widely known about, and I would describe the majority of the people as outsiders; people who don't really fit in with the general crowd. I guess that's why I had felt so at home there.

It's easy to lose myself in the beat of the music and the heat, so easy just to block everything else out and dance mindlessly.

I shake myself now – I shouldn't be thinking about the warehouses, and dancing, when I'll be in the Hunger Games in a matter of days. No matter how much the club means to me, I highly doubt that I'll ever see it again. There's no point in reminiscing about the things that are long gone, which is exactly why I never allow myself to think about my mother.

I decide that I want to go to the living room, turn the television on and use it in just the same way that I use music, and dancing – as an escape from the real world. But as I reach the open door I freeze, my feet sticking to the carpet beneath my bare toes. There's a brief moment where I'm forced to shake my head because it reminds me so much of that night from six years ago; a darkened room, the flickering light against the walls, a faint hum resounding from the television.

I narrow my eyes, squinting into the darkness to make out the shadowy shape resting on the sofa. It takes me several moments to work out what I'm seeing, and as I do my breath catches in my throat. Caspian sits perched on the edge of the cushions; his forehead resting against his palms and his dark hair spilling over his hands.

I can't believe how well he had been hiding his pain from everyone else – it astounds me that he could do a complete u-turn like this. Happy-go-lucky and friendly around other people, but like _this_ by himself. I had seen hints of his pain his eyes, but I hadn't expected to see anything like that. I stand stiffly for a few moments, reluctant to move. I'm not exactly a great sympathiser, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say to someone like this. I have no idea what he's going through and, to be honest, I'm sure he would rather I didn't reel off meaningless condolences. We all know what the Hunger Games can do to people – we just never talk about it.

Just as I've made up my mind to disappear, and leave him in peace, I adjust my position slightly and my elbow snags against the side of the door, causing it to emit a tiny squeak. My breath quickens and I snatch my elbow back, but the damage has already been done and Caspian's head jerks up.

"I'm sorry," I splutter, feeling colour rise in my cheeks as he surveys me with a confused expression, "I didn't know anyone would be awake. It's just, I couldn't sleep and-" I cut myself off midway through my rambling before I start to really embarrass myself. "I'll just go back to bed," something inside me protests as I say this though – I don't want to return to that cold, empty room and lie awake for hours on end.

"You don't have to," he mutters, gesturing vaguely towards the television, "you can stay, and watch it if you want."

I shake my head slightly, "I don't want to..." I trail off, thinking of the best way to put this, "to disturb you."

He laughs, almost bitterly, and I glance at him surprise. The night is certainly bringing out a different side to him, and it's making me feel uncomfortable. "I wasn't doing anything, so there's nothing to disturb." And the way in which he says those words makes me realise that he really doesn't want anyone else to hear about this. I can't say I blame him though – I remember how much my mother had tried to hide her addiction from me, how she tried to pretend that the Hunger Games didn't have an effect on her. Caspian's attempt now works just about as well as hers had done. But I'm certainly not going to question him on it – it isn't any of my business.

So I cross the room, and sit down on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking my legs up underneath me and scrunching my robe up with my fingers. An awkward silence settles across the room for a moment as I train my eyes on the television, and try to make out what it is that I'm watching.

After I watch as woman dressed in a skin-tight silver cat suit and knee high purple boots chucking some coloured balls around between her hands I glance over at Caspian for an explanation.

"It's Panem's Got Talent," he says, grinning at me in such a way that would make me forget about what I had just seen, if it wasn't for the slightly dull look in his eyes.

"What does that mean?" I demand as the camera shows three other Capitol citizens, sitting in a row and shaking their heads, looking sorely disappointed. I can't say I blame them – the woman didn't seem to have been demonstrating much talent from what I could see. It amazes me that the Capitol has time to make these pointless television programmes while, back in District 4, we only ever have the television turned on when a viewing is mandatory – we don't have time to recline in front of it, watching rubbish like this.

"It's a contest, I think. They get judged and the best ones go through to the next round." I roll my eyes in astonishment.

"What's the point?" I question, but he just shrugs in response. "Why are you watching it?"

"I couldn't sleep either," he murmurs.

I bite my lip, and turn my attention back to the screen for a few moments, watching in confusion as a man does a strange dance with rods of different coloured lights. It's a far cry from the dancing in the warehouses back home – this is disciplined and structured. It's as though the Capitol has removed everything that I enjoy about it – the free, let-yourself-go aspect of it. You're supposed to just feel the music, not move in these stiff, unnatural positions.

I glance back over at Caspian, "I won't tell anyone," I blurt out, before realising that it probably wasn't the best idea. He raises his eyebrows at me and I knot my fingers together, trying to focus on my hands, rather than his face.

"How about we don't talk about it?" he says determinedly, looking back at the television. I said those words so many times after my mother's death – trying to pretend like it didn't really bother me and push people away so that I wouldn't have to talk about it, or even think about it before. So I don't press him any further – because those words are what I always used whenever I wanted to avoid a conversation and, curious as I may be, I won't keep questioning him, because I remember how much I'd wanted to hit and scream at those people who hadn't listened to what I was saying.

So I just nod in response and watch a group of people singing away, and swaying to the rhythm of the annoyingly upbeat music. Then they try to hit the top note, and the singing turns to squeaking – two of them are cut off completely and laughter erupts from my throat as the camera shows the expressions of the judges. I hear Caspian chuckling by the side of me, and I cast a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye, before dragging my attention back to the screen.

Perhaps we're both just trying to pretend that nothing's wrong, and that we still have the ability to laugh, or maybe it's just that I finally have an opportunity to mock the Capitol without risking getting into trouble, I'm not sure. But sitting here laughing at this is a damn sight easier than lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and willing time to slow down. And, as much as I may try to deny it, the fact that I'm not alone helps too.

* * *

Sorry for the long wait - I've been very busy. Updates will probably be quite infrequent from now on, because I'm nearing exam season :(

As always, I really appreciate reviews - I always want to know how I could improve my writing. :D


End file.
